Our answering machine plays back
the voices of our dead.
It lies on the table
cold and humming.
Dust from its speaker
settles in the light.
The tape spins forward.
Sometimes it stops.
They say it’s not possible
to separate meaning from sound –
the way she makes her i’s into ah’s,
whispers inside of death’s mouth –
Play her back
like you did when she lived
and poured coffee for you
in the morning when the sun
lit her fingers and her hair
was bright in the steam of it.
Play her back.
Her sounds are small.
They crackle in a form unlike her.
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