Ashley M. Jones
After I was born,
I cried for three months straight.
My mouth, a great brown crack
in the Alabama soil,
sprouted wondrous wails.
My tongue,
a cotton candy spade,
licked the air,
and it tasted of ticking
and the salt
of baby formula.
Each day,
I was a siren.
Five o’ clock, exactly,
and I’d scream until nightfall.
Alive, I said.
Pain, I said.
Maybe I stopped
because it is hard
to keep roaring.
Maybe because
I felt the warm burn
of my mother’s
loving ear.
Maybe,
because we grow up,
and at some point,
there’s nothing
more to do
with a voice
than to hum drum
and whisper
as loud
as you can.