Whose Voice

Empty house. Small hours.

Just me and the architecture.

All right, then. Let's take inventory.

The breath — his. He rebuilt it.

The vowels — his, room by room.

The high ring they applaud — his, his,

signed like a canvas.

Keep subtracting.

Whose voice, whose voice

is in my mouth tonight?

Peel every gift away

and what remains, remains —

if anything remains.

Under the technique — there.

Hear it? That waver. That flaw.

The thing he called the enemy,

the thing the lessons hunted.

It's still alive down there,

small as a pilot light,

shaking like it's cold.

It was mine before the walls spoke.

Whose voice, whose voice —

here's what the subtraction leaves:

something small. Unfinished.

Breathing. Trembling.

Mine.

He trained the shaking out of every note

because the shaking wouldn't take instruction.

Of course it wouldn't.

It was the only part still listening to me.

Whose voice? Mine starts

where the trembling is.

Then I'll start from the trembling —

build from the flaw outward,

every stone my own hand,

and let it shake, and let it shake,

and let it ring.