I only half heard the continuous splash br Of the water falling wearily into the tub br From the far away, invisible, silver faucet. br (some distant part of me, half thought that br it sounded exactly as things do in dreams) br And I barely felt the water warming then br As it closed in around me, cradling me… br I was too busy contemplating how heavy br The book had suddenly become in my hands. br Heavy it was with voices, countless voices, br Begging, each of them, to be heard - br The New American Poets of the 90’s br Were crying out. br br Wet handed, I flipped from page to page br To hear little girl Molly whisper from the chair br Followed by the sound of Li-Young’s cleaver br Contemptuously splitting her poem in two. br Voice for voice, page by page br I fell to them – listening to the echoes br Of long ago and yesterday and never-will-be. br It was Richard, I think, who first sounded like me. br (“not at all by design had I lingered” br there, half expecting the tub to overflow) br And when Richard told me that he may disappear br If he simply closed his eyes, I closed mine br To see if I would. br br But it wasn’t until glorious page one fifty one br That I found Jonathan and fell madly in love br As he first rambled simple to profound br Before turning profound to something obvious. br I wondered if others had been able to hear him br Amongst the eighty nine other insistent voices br Like Norman, Linda and especially Beckian br (who used lovely half speak to smash clouds br Open like fruit, bringing finally then the rain) br Deciding it didn’t matter – I drew myself up br And stepped out of the tub, renewed. br I smiled at my reflection, knowing exactly br What I must do.