![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVHj-lMvWtqZMUV3qkTjvK6TE-SkVVBAuu4Evf6NJToq4MxkMUnrsmj0E-nGGQR2XQYceSaxdFah3rogv17seKoAYpky2PbXjSU_-bhTUGrpw0XsSofpViku-tvnX5gpLpJodf3tt06_U/s320/Bernard.jpg)
That voice—from the tv—that voice,
thick smoky cheese, or, no— dark as burnt flan, sweet,
venison-sweet in the heavy smoke
of a tavern hearth, and hot as brandy.
I served that voice for months,
in a theater on 13th near Third
where losers are the ones who crack first.
I gave you azured hours, nights,
and you placed your soul,
pretty as a dead mouse, at my feet.
Gutturals, the candles guttering backstage.
Your voice went everywhere
you dared not put your hands.
April Bernard (Nueva Inglaterra, EE UU, 1960). Docente, poeta, novelista y editora.