Gyroscope Review 15-1 - Page 38

 by Terry Jude Miller the voice that describes
 my mother’s murder to the insurance man
 ticks with static and feedback,
 words adhere to slick metal,
 then snail down the sluice,
 a thick stream of black milk an insulated voice tells my sister
 of mother’s violent end, an act
 of ventriloquy points my sister
 to the west wall, away from blood
 and blame - she is not fooled,
 she knows the origin a whisper tells me my mother
 is dead, everywhere there’s falling,
 flooding, freezing, like treading water
 and not feeling the sandy bottom
 beneath the sea that suspends me I do not know from where the final voice
 comes, it has no shape nor alphabet
 and has lived forever many times
 before, it has no face nor blood,
 no breath nor light nor darkness,
 it carries comfort on its back
 in a gunny sack that once held stellar embryos,
 I recline upon the air and beckon
 it to sing Gyroscope Review 37 !