Escocia

I read it in your voice,
and then I read it again.
Slower
luxuriating on each syllable
as though there are mountains on my tongue
forest air brushing its surface
clean as truth.
I read it in your voice
because mine is not my own;
mine
hijacked by virus
is deliciously foreign,
its otherness a sharp scratch
from a silk sheet.
I read it in your voice
say my name in your voice
flirt and sing and laugh
all your voice
all flowing spring water
closer than you can be
closer than time and chance and the
squawking bird I’m
weaning
from my
chest
will permit.
A hillslide off the edge of the page.
Gravel shifts.
A sharp scratch,
but the silk forgiven.
Tonight,
I’ll read the whole damn book.
Tomorrow,
sated,
not even your voice
will slip from my tongue.