I am Echo now

Yet he still does not understand

And, exhausted, I say

“I know when I’m not making sense,

But this is not one of those times”

And he replies,

“If you know you’re not making sense

Don’t be angry,”

And I say the same again, then again

Strangling octaves as I tense

At the same, exact reply

And his glazed eyes,

I am echoing why I am echoing

While I am echoing how,

Until, yes, what was false

At first becomes undeniable

As I do lose what I was saying

And my voice becomes a shrill bell,

Grating and hollow and loud,

Once I had a voice,

But I am Echo now.

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch