Five-year-old me is standing on a rough-hewn swing,
singing in time, oblivious to voices that spring
from the church next door, “don’t grow up proud,”
“be demure,” “girls should not be loud,”
harmonious, acceptable voices – soon to reach
my ears – burning my cheeks, not meant to impeach.
The preacher’s daughter shrinks and into the church choir
her song integrates. Does the child ever acquire
the classical rules applied to the song in euphonies
and symmetries? I push the religiously recognized boundaries
into clashing counterpoint and discordant dissonance,
but only so far; preferring the hidden ambivalence
of hidden diaries slipped under a mattress, repressing
so as not to invite critique. But the child said, “Sing!”
So I begin with tentative notes, wondering
if my message is needed, but soon a fluttering
of response I hear, coming out of the din below,
a tune that began as one begins to grow.
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