death cry

Death Cry

by Carolyn Hunter

That first Cry. That first, soaring sound.

Raw. Piercing. Honest. True.

No bars, no weight, no heaviness

Free. Generous. Guttural. Gutsy.

Yet, not one minute out of the womb 

The Cry takes on It’s own doom.

The mother takes the babe to say, “Shh.”

Kindly, yes; we hope - but there is no guarantee

As It grows, It submits. Decreasing.

Caressed by silent sightless sound barriers

or melanged by noisy, sharp barkings;

The Cry of the soul, begins to cease 

Taking on others’ weight. Another’s rules. 

The Cry, our voice, becomes mute;

Colored with someone else’s crayons.

Life breaking our sound to the ground.

At the moment we made that first Cry

Our voice? Sadly, It began to die.