isn’t her good morning, good afternoon, good night voice,
her karaoke as she dusts, make furniture polite voice,
her saved for neighbours’ babies and cooing our dog’s name voice.
It isn’t her best china, not too forward, not too shy voice,
or her dinner’s ready, your room looks like a sty voice,
or her whisper in my ear as she adjusts my tie voice.
It’s not her roll in, Friday night, Lucy in the Sky voice,
her Sunday morning, smartest frock, twinkle-in-the-eye voice,
that passing gossip of the vicar with the Communion wine voice.
It’s not her ‘Gateau – no, ice cream – no…I can’t make the choice’ voice.
It’s not her decades late, fourth change, ‘Is this skirt smart enough?’ voice.
It’s not her caught me with the girl from number twenty-one voice.
That voice which she reserved for twelve-foot grannies, Deep South hobos,
that sleepy, secret staircase, selfish giants, Lilliput voice.
That tripping over, ‘Boy why is your house so full of books?’ voice.
JONATHAN EDWARDS