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Poetry > A Geography of the Heart

Vox Humana

It is a voice,
kept in a box.
The box has thick black hair,
brown eyes, a beautiful straight nose.
The eyes are sometimes friendly,
sometimes fiery.
The box is twenty-three years old.

Many hear the voice singing
but never ask who.
One day someone does.
An Italian.
He says,
Give me that voice,
I will make it famous.
But the owner of the box says,
No, I need that box
to keep my children.

Years pass by.
The box grows old and grey,
the eyes look less and less friendly,
fewer people hear the voice.
One day the voice goes dead,
sighing sorrowfully as it goes.
The box cracks open.
Inside is my grandmother.

@ L.A. Wolanskyj

Published on 01/07/2010

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  L. A. Wolanskyj

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