FATHER'S VOICE

by Anina Tweed

My little finger used to follow

the rise and fall of his Adam's apple,

marveling at its bobbing.

My ear, lying against his throat,

couldn't distinguish word from rumble.

It's more of a vibration than a voice,

bringing to mind the earthshaking

tumbling of thunder

or the milder rolling of a train.

The pounding of horses is wrapped up

in his words.

His voice penetrates my wall

to rock and roll me to sleep.

Carried off on the wave of his speech,

I am kept safe in its storm.