Listen to Joshua Edwards reading this poem Her voice is coming up like a slow show tune made famous by its composer’s death,
and he’s a man dreaming of a play bathed
in lunar light, so cheating on her. The day
is very warm, and then: three telephone
calls saying: the child was bitten, the child
is allergic, the child has died, and they are
so sad that they will set the scene again
with a flower that could not hold the bees’
attention. And a monument fell to pieces
within them. The day gathered them
in its hull, blew a horn, which sounded like
echoed sobbing, and the notion to hold still
was in the air. And they held the air still within
them, as though a moment is something
that leaks from the lungs, and not some
thing that comes to whisper, as it passes
first closely, and then away.
