at the typewriter

sometimes i think of tanya

there at the typewriter

mending wendell’s words,

shepherding stray ideas

back toward the true voice

whose timbre has by now 

been etched into her bones.

---

how does it feel to know 

another voice as intimately 

as your own; to hear the rise

of a sentence and predict

by instinct the exact timing 

of the turn, the fall, the 

unspooling to a full stop?

---

how does it feel to have 

forgotten where it ends 

and you begin?