Sometimes I feel lost, like I don’t know my own voice.  Here is a poem about that feeling…

 

Identity

You stand in the middle

Of this hollow oval room

Waiting for your voice.

 

You have heard that voices

Come, like boomerangs,

Back in this type space.

 

But all that boomerangs

Back is the drum

Of frustrated fingers.  This

 

Must be West Texas;

Your voice stuck in some

Prairie dog’s hole.

 

Like Noah’s final dove,

You sent her out but

She never came back;

                                               

Found a new home

Nestled in the ear

Of some unborn child.

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