When she was ten,

a virus snatched her voice

Held it ransom

for over a week

Her parents,

avid union stewards,

Refused coercion,

ate audacity for lunch

Frieda Rose’s voice

unexpectedly returned

Left by the front door

in a brown paper bag

It had been smoked down

to the filter

Puree’d with grenades

in a blender

Yet men always begged her

To sing them a song.

 

Copyright 2018