Black Rattle
        for Dr. Irwin Badin

Sometimes my voice
comes out of your mouth—
songs rush from the throats of weeds,
leaves fly back to trees,
and the moon peels back its skin
to show the sea
its great green heart.

I used to bring you souvenirs from hell—
wasted chances in a screaming jar,
hours, months, tangled in kelp,
envy curled in a shoe.

I shook my memory at you
like a black rattle
and would've sacrificed
a city for a kiss.

It was in your listening
that I heard my voice
for the first time.
It rolled across my tongue
like luminous beads
and the sound roused me
from my drowned bed.

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Copyright © 2021 Linda Hillringhouse All rights reserved
from The Things I Didn't Know to Wish For
NYQ Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission