Before the light he does not need has come,
before the caked spittle
has been cleaned from his cheek,
into the quiet world
he calls–a lone voice into the dawn.
Deborah! Mary!
If truth be told, he does not
summon my worn sisters;
instead he calls for their Latin, their Greek,
their nimble hands.
I would gladly hurry to his side
should he call my name,
but he never calls for me,
not for voiceless me.
I am like the one who wasn’t born,
unable to move the quill,
an unnecessary mouth.
Yet if I had the calling,
I would tell my father this: I, too,
have seen the celestial muse.
In my dreams she brings abundant blue violets.
But there lie
a thousand miles between his voice and mine,
and should I travel in search of paradise,
I would get lost.
