I can hear the words and pitch to her songs perfectly
once I try to sing ’m all become ephemeral
wiped with a sponge of transformation
from mind to pressure and absence of muscle memory

I can eloquently separate the words to a grand speech
once on stage, even at that kitchen table with mom
grammar and syntax as vassals of order and sequence
never rsvp’ed and retired from their halls of reverberation

I can sense the confidence in verbose presentation
I can sense perfection in the plucking of a string ’n’ vocal cord
I can feel the energy, the passion, the skill
ah, if only

imagination

                            —animasuri’24