Boxes that play a funky sound

Way back when,
When I did not understand the crook in my aunt’s back,
And the boom of my uncle’s,
I picked up the sword.
Way back when,
When the milkweeds lined fences,
I’d scream and huff out my dreams,
I made them stick to trees and,
Adorn my arms like tattoos.
Way back when,
When my voice was crushed in the debris,
I picked it up and took it home.
I set it on the living room floor
And poked at it.
I picked up the sword
– with hopes to annihilate it’s beating.
It skipped,  faltered, sung and yelled.
Way back when,
Before the moon fluttered it’s light between the tree’s leaves,
I’d pull back the skin of my throat
And wind my voice box up –
Letting it turn slowly as a ballerina in a music box.
Way back when,
When I traced the bricks of my house,
I told my voice to leap in the fire with me.
I told it we must dance through the flames
And hope to see our future as bright.
Way back when,
I told my voice to quiet it’s tremors
And tunnel underground.

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