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.
