her laughter is not as musical
as her singing voice, ‘tho’ the
worn lyric remains true
i asked, she said it was her
choice, her fallow larynx, mute
sang not. she would be the tune
very quietly, the tune of she
rises as the memory
of distant matins ringing.
i, whose father loved
to hear her sing, cheer
each faint strain of her tune,
i would press my ear
to the silent moon, entrain
to grasp her refrain, master
the subtle craft of evoking
her laugh, music enough,
as she chooses not to sing
a bitter thing, hope-jokeless
dissonant in the ringing
silence, an aural violence
of tone and drums, a bachelor
hums a droning song of home
walking alone in the slums