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Frog in the Throat 

I give you turbulence, soft phonation,
absolute jitter. Tadpoles in vocal folds 
of their father, yellow and red cross-noggins 
shooting in all directions from white space:    
that's my voice on computer printout, 

record of me with electrodes 
over the larynx and magnifying glass on the tongue,  
climbing scales in diphthongs, 
leaping the octave's cliffs and shifts of fall
while the mulberry pearls

of vocal chords, viscous and tensile, flex 
like a mollusc, buzz like a pink queen bee. 
Your muscles should be fast 
as trampolines. Your voice is your breath. 
The first thing that's yours, and the last.

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