voice

you say
my voice
is like a lullaby,
drawing you
into a quiet;
but i don't like my voice.

you say
my voice
is dusted
with the magic
of fairies;
but i don't like my voice.

you say
my voice
dropped
into the stillness
of your clearing;
but i don't like my voice.

you say
my voice
held you,
grinding you to a stop,
to listen to yourself;
but i don't like my voice.

and i wonder
if that's how it should be;

that when i can stay
with my sadness
and your joy
that ripple out of
this god-given voice,
perhaps i can make space
for all those voices
the world disdains,

and perhaps that's how
i can learn to speak,
all over again,
in the tongue
of a world
that i can now
only dream of,
for you and me.