Challenging Poetry

Reading "The Bells"

when I was young, I learned Poe
from a teacher who divided us
by voice—the girls in high silver
and darker gold,
the boys in bronze and iron.
I was silver, bright and pure—a sleigh
bell, meant for amusement.
no wedding bells
haunted my voice. its tintinnabulation
meant to be forever alone.

twenty-five years later,
my voice has changed—silver
throbbing the iron toll of blood
and rust and tears, and I
remembering the ones who
brought me such depth, cannot
wish a return to the pure
tones I once knew—but I wonder
how that teacher would
have me read Poe, now.

line count: 20
April 8: the sound of a bell