It’s when you read to yourself a true voice comes…

Not spoken

A rehearsal and a what if,

A talking back to your mother

Things you’d say

Running off

And won’t be forgot

But embellished,

Mrs. Havisham’s house

Was your childhood home

(There must have been a cake

With spiders, windows

Never opened)

All this under your tongue

Which insists

Like a cat prowling

Through grass

Page after page

There is a kind of future.

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by skuusisto