9:30am, iPhone alarm bells ring – a syncopated memory of brass on brass clanging an appeal to church bell peals, a symphony of wake the fuck up. Lola rolls out of bed holding her head and falls to the floor with a thud. She cries out as she picks herself up but realises no sound has escaped her tangled lips. Skipping downstairs to make herself breakfast, Lola sings soft to herself but all she hears are her footsteps and the creak of the stairs underfoot.
When her sister comes to the kitchen to brew morning tea, Lola standing with head in hands is the first thing she sees. The poor sod’s been talking too much and has lost her voice, though in reality it’s not just the talking but also the choice she made to be cruel and boring – sometimes it seemed vanity and volume were Lola’s only calling, but the day she woke up with a frog in her throat with no voice left to bicker or gloat served as a longer lasting lesson that it pays just as well to exchange stories and listen.
I heard words like hosanna thrown about in the arches
but they sounded to me like lizards on a rock
so I stood in the light from a stained glass window
and watched the dust motes dyed red and pink and gold
and thought that god was in the dust, not the light
and in the breaths in before the choir sang