Fixin’ To

His voice.
His voice was not
yours. Not that still
sharp Yankee whip,
tempered but untamed
by The South.

No.

His voice.
His voice was
The South.

Ancient Ulster curled,
like dreamy, tender
tendrils of butterscotch,
from every ‘er:
daughter
brother
sister
Lover

Til I found myself
longing to drop
with every R,
aching to merge
with every vowel;
the hard consonant
edges of my soul
worn (gently) smooth
by the tumble from
one syllable to two

srogers 16 february 2012