By: Julia Wilson
The first and only time I heard your real voice is when you talked about your childhood
The things your father did, the things your mother didnt
The day your father left
You grew three feet
You went to college
You started a family
And you passed away
In a matter of seconds
You were only seven
I think that’s when you started speaking with rocks in your throat
To ignore, maybe hide the fact that you were so weak
When you told me the things your father had done, geodes formed in your mouth and cracked open with your words
Your cheeks bled backyard dirt innocence, I watched you travel back in time
I heard that seven year old in you crying for your father not to leave
For your mother to be what you needed
No matter how hard you tried to harden that voice of yours you couldn’t for the first time in your life
I know you do it to protect yourself
I don’t know from what
When you cried that day
I saw gravel fall from your mouth and hit the floor till your throat was light and empty
I watched your vocal chords explode
I saw a seven year old turn from stone to mush stone to mush
I watched a sixteen year old turn to a volcano and callous over till he knew no man could never make him seven again
The next day you came to my house and could no longer fit through the door
You had grown six more feet, we could see eye to eye from my second floor window
You grew a beard and your face wrinkled, you couldn’t stand upright without a cane
I told you I loved you that day
You tried to say it back
But all I heard was a radiator hum
HOWLER LIT 