Voices Poem by Pamela Spiro Wagner

Pops and crackling, a radio tuning itself,
the squeal and echo of feedback
before the broadcast of secrets, thoughts no one should know.

In the wall today, a colony of immigrant
Japanese have taken up residence.
They speak an unknown dialect I alone understand.

One voice commands the household, tells me
the right and wrong way to do everything.
My local pastor finds transcripts of his advice 'spiritually moving.'

An enthusiastic friend tells me I am channeling, undoubtedly
an ancient spirit I met in a former life. Brother
Luke, I say, you talk too much. Go away.

Some days there is only repeated music,
singing that has gone to my head
and broken there, a record on a spindle turning, returning.