Driving My Mother’s Car, I Find An Unlabeled Cassette

A voice without conviction sings,
trembles between keys as one
who’s prodded with a gun might pause
at the threshold of a dark room.

It takes a while for me to hear
the voice is not a girl’s, but mine
that squeaked and hawked out Hebrew sounds
the day I was supposed a man.

A made-up man, I knew myself.
Still do. And sick with all the grief
unearthed from wishing myself strong,
I snap the volume off.

Michael Barach