Our voices are in love with each other.
By this I don’t mean the words they use to describe what they already know
But the voices we were born with
The ones that first howled as if to break into that great light
These are the voices I mean.
Our voices have learned each other’s flight patterns
Out of gender they match pitch not unlike two swallows
trailing each other wing upon wing through the air.
This is what our voices do, and sometimes I forget to listen for their words,
those poor imitators of what our voices already know: the naming of things,
the way I tell you I have never been so afraid, so happy, once I’ve said it.