And my very life lived in my voice.

My very wise sister sometimes speaks with the voice of God.

She/He told me where I am and where I must go.

I am in a dark room sitting at a desk,

trying to write--

of course of course I am trying to write.

But my paper is crumpled and refuses to be smoothed

and my ink invisible;

my pen has a feather, but I can't fly with it.

I am worse than Icarus.

Then, into the darkness, a man, an angel, a being

breaks in and throws a javelin (a javelin!) at the wall,

bringing in a beam that illuminates my desk with what I imagine is inspiration

(thank god, a lightbulb above my head!)

But still no words from my quill.

whywonttheycomeoutiknowtheyareinthereifeelthemexpandingandyellingandhowdoiknowwhatithinkunlessiwriteitdown

"Use your voice."

Not just Nancy or Nina or Roxy--Jessie.

"You are known. Speak and you will know it."

My song will not be silenced; I will not be Jonah; my life-voice will live outside the belly of a whale.

Meditation at the Duck Pond

Lily pads catch light like oil spills on stagnant water.

In the center, a rock,

and a jar, balanced precariously,

but still.

So still it takes stillness to tell where center rock ends and jar begins.

From the jar's emptiness

reversed is nature:

rain falls up

and branches drink before roots.

Through still emptiness of jar

murky water meets light and air:

Clarity

After touching another living thing

it falls back to its beginning.

Gravity is persistent.

Each briefly sparkling drop goes full circle

and is absorbed

back into its sludgy starting place,

but not without

a sound

a reflection

a ripple

that rips the surface and changes everything.