like a tin can telephone
your voice travels to me
mama
mama
mama
sweet and clear like true love
like teenage hearts
like bird songs
I am your mama
your love bomb
your rock and roll
your Saturday night
I want to spend days
counting the hairs
on your head
weeks memorizing the
exact timbre of your baby voice
years listening to you
say my name

there is a map to the end of the world
to the place where we die without remorse
or regret
or still sadness
and the key
the clues
live in the mouth of a child
in the short space of the place
we call home

About the Author

Amy Turn Sharp

Amy Turn Sharp is a poet, freelance writer and toy maker. She wrote a poem everyday for the entire year of 2012. When she’s not writing, Amy and her husband make wooden toys for their company, . .