after Elizabeth Hoover
a hum is a swallowed song
you don’t have to keep
the same day a man yelled at me
on my corner, you gave me more makeup
a clutch with watercolor irises on it
purpleblue like the ones my mother calls mine
when they come in each year
I still cry alone when I sing for people, let them see
how careful I must be with my breath
in the world of men this will not make you
feel better, you say
this will not get you free
our voices sound so strange to us
because we hear ourselves most
with our inner ear, our bones and cartilage
listen, is it true I don’t want to be afraid
my hand is opened, I take from you, the flower
again, among all this silence, still grace
Conor Scruton lives in Milwaukee, where they research ghost stories and are a poetry editor for Cream City Review. Their work has appeared in CutBank, Puerto del Sol, Salamander, and other journals. Find them @conorscruton on Twitter.