Even when I was small everyone knew the size
of my voice. Once, a man asked if I still had my
tonsils, incredulous that a full
body could so fully resonate. My calm and measured
breath trembled our silent home, shuddered
its foundation, a mute swan shrugging off
the muddy river. I was enough to disturb
my father’s taproots, create a threat
of felling. Men know a voice of any size
can fit within a fist so a fist
of any size is silence. He rooted deeper,
deeper, and the yard filled with pines
so tall they couldn’t see me
leaning against their trunks, never noticed me
humming softly to soothe myself.
For money, Krista Cox is a paralegal. For joy, she’s an associate poetry editor at Stirring: A Literary Collection and Pittsburgh Poetry Review, and Program Director of Lit Literary Collective, a nonprofit serving her local literary community. Her poetry has appeared in Columbia Journal, Rappahannock Review, The Humanist, and elsewhere.