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alyssa witvoet | Spring 2022

My mother tells me how, when I was little, 
she would measure the 
quality of her cooking
by listening for my incessant hums. 
A good meal was loud, swirling
itself into my braided pigtails and threading
echoes between the legs of our 
rickety kitchen chairs. 

My spirits resounded within the floorboards, 
unapologetically and endlessly
reaching,
buoyed by radio jingles—
I did not notice them transfer to rattle
within my own chest.  

When my roommate met
my father,
he doubled over in laughter at 
the two of us, 
our synchronous silvery sighs. 

I was never privy to my own murmurs—
I thought joy simply lived 
in the lips.