I used to be a cheerleader. I know.
I can hardly believe it myself.
But how far I could throw my voice
when there was something deserving
to encourage, something young
and striving and worth putting
my lungs into, hollering not just
from the larynx, but from the gut
and chest, all my power behind
what needed to be said louder
at the time. And I was tall and big
for my age, the base of the pyramid,
helping to hold up the smaller ones,
the ones I used to wish I could be,
until, not too long after, I understood
they had the sadder stories, those kinds
of lives no one would have wanted
for themselves—for anyone, really.
So it is here I find myself, here I start
thinking about breathing again,
writing from the bottom, the origins,
wherever these reminders come from
that I used to know how to be more
audible, that what came from my tongue
was exactly what I wanted at that moment,
and if I keep inhaling deeply, exhaling
my elocution, enunciate the syllables
over and over, bringing up from the diaphragm
whatever is important, whatever needs
to make it over the din—even if
what I am shouting for seems to be at a loss,
I will cheer until everyone has been heard.
Until my throat is raw with the words.
Until the clock runs out.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright May 29, 2024, all rights reserved
Posted in Katherine's Coffeehouse