Sound
Sound A lion pulls me forward my heart the wheels the air on fire. How long? How long? As far back as I remember. Three—the pigs’ screaming fear the rifle shot. Four—the stolen egg yolks on the sidewalk suns crackling Seventy—long green seed pods hanging from the trees comb my hair as I pass under. Get home says the honey locust or Stay. Not always sure of the translation but fire knows I listen let go of direction arms wide chest open. Ears. Fire everywhere. Or is it light? Am I sound enough for the ride? As far back as I can remember the lion the heart unasks the question. S. Robbins, from Readings
Sherry Robbins 