“DO YOU hear voices?” he said. I was going to say something like, doesn’t everyone? Or, sure, but my inner-earmuffs are off today. Yesterday was tough. Then he said, “Write… about the voices you hear or the ones you used to; the voices which call or enthrall; the voices which yearn and those which burn.” I was tired, so I shook my head. But… somewhere, between my heart and the places where the dead we love live on, my little brother spoke. And I wrote…
“Don’t Forget to Dance”
his heart speaks loudest
when the crocus sleeps in ice.
don’t forget to dance
with me… for me, brujita—
my heart will sing through your feet
the wee notes…
– As the anniversary of my little brother’s death approaches, the voice of his memory in my heart gets louder and louder and louder…
– Brujita means little witch, in Spanish.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Sunday Mini-Prompt with Brendan: Voices) and to Poets United (Poetry Pantry, 337).
“Dance of Joy”