A poem by Luciana Francis, written during her early months as a mother to celebrate witnessing the birth of a voice. Illustration by Marco Melgrati.
Silence surrounds your early vowels
and to rathe consonants a cue
whilst in the wings of the blue hour.
You tiptoe with your tongue
the table is laid, rounded in resonance
language is an expectant satellite.
And like a view from a window: everything’s ahead.
Beginning with this gurgle
from the hollow orb – your berried mouth
where the spelling of days constellate.
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