Poem by

ALLISON BLEVINS + JOSHUA DAVIS

“This is the sound of voices two.”

This is the sound of thunderstruck glass, flawless,

astonishing. The year I learned to hate

the earth shed September skin late, leaves clung

brown and shivering to their branches.

This is the sound of one child folding her clothes.

This is the sound of one woman drumming

her fingers, plotting escape. The year I became

a mother, ice slept on our rooftops and eaves,

wind rocked every phone line, whispered

forever, forever, forever. This is the sound of one man

shaking pills into a lover’s palm, white and green—glistening.

This is the sound of lightning splitting tree trunks,

car alarms blaring, teeth clamping. The year

I became a father, I wanted to die. I begged

the baby to crave me most. I offered my son my breast,

vestigial, pathetic. This is the sound of a newborn

begging, the flies surrounding his sixth-month head.

The sound of all of us wincing: wires that tense under thick ice.