Dysphonia

Within my throat a flutter will not be stilled.

“Wispy quality—?”

“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.

As if:

inside my mother’s old harpsichord a key might flutter on its own, mystery

red felt

white bone plectrum

jammed ajar.

Did it. Done to. Door                                 

As if:

leaping sudden toward its latch