That Voice

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still resonates in my mind’s eye—loudly.
Have you left such an imprint, or have your
furry rivals stolen your rhythm and life?
The nocturnal orchestra whose maestro
you were is now out of order; you must
be proud of your might in your holy den.
Your sudden unexpected shout had so
many nuances which could win you a
talent show. Perhaps your rusty ears did
not support you in acknowledging them.
When you would ululate like brave Tarzan
and jump off that old chest like a gosling,
how could you forget you had two weak legs?
They say each good soul is reborn a king.
I hope your heirloom will echo among
us, in orchestras full of life—sweetly.

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Born on a 13 in the 90s, Jenny Cruz started writing poems at 31. She adores cooking, television and palindromes.