When I arrive at work, I find the director’s handwritten draft on my chair. Before transcribing, I slant sunlight, make coffee steam, and set my hair free. A breath. A murmured chant. I begin to tap...
In the gaps between his words, an unseen poem takes shape. His speech is now infused with my voice. Tomorrow, as he speaks to the conference attendees, they will sigh—restless to escape.
lunch hour—
swirling about my car
birdsong and leaves
Bio: Beverly A. Tift