My mother

Emma Burden | Fall 2022

I am afraid of my voice,
Afraid of the way that it may ring,
The way that it may command a room,
The way that it may hurt someone,
The way that it may comfort my daughter

I have lived a life of silence,
Of writing in notebooks,
Of hiding my voice between pages,
Under bookmarked novels and sticky notes,
Under myself, under my body,
My voice is buried with my grandmother

I decorate the house with roses,
And with bright coral shades,
Deep, cerulean blues,
But each room looks the same,
They look like me,
But my voice is not there

The bells of my voice ring empty,
My ears are ringing with my own silence,
With my inner voice filling them,
Ruining my day

Do I speak,
So,
Do I risk the peace?

Do I speak up to my father, to my mother,
Do I set a good example for my daughter?
I see my daughter in myself, I see her love of writing, her love of reading,
I listen to her singing at all hours of the night, and I listen to her voice,
Her trailing conversations,
Her melodic, rhythmic speaking,
As she tells me what is wrong

And I don’t speak up,
For I have a voice,
But I am vowed to silence

At the end of the day,
No one is listening.