Within my throat a flutter will not be stilled.
“You sound terrible!”
“Ma’am, let me explain this one-time offer.”
Dithering still who I would be, and already some essentials of me departed.
Identified all stresses, combed their hair mornings, offered them orange juice.
Turning a mother voice on and off. Slow at saying some things
in America. Regret never singing in a rock band.
inside my mother’s old harpsichord a key might flutter on its own, mystery
white bone plectrum
Did it. Done to. Door
leaping sudden toward its latch