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Can you actually hear my
little rasp in the back row?

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OK.

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I'm really trying.

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I'm so sorry.

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Of all the times
to lose your voice

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this-- it feels like karma.

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Like, I don't know
what I have done.

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But I'm so-- I'm
so sorry, universe,

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please give me my voice back.

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OK.

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This poem is called
''Harrowing''.

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I mean, Kathleen Turner does
this just on the regular,

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right.

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So, like, maybe this
is just the new normal.

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I can go karaoke Bette
Davis Eyes tonight

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and it would sound
really authentic.

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I can do my best
'80s Kim Carnes.

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OK.

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This poem is called
''Harrowing''.

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''The world is harrowing.

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Harrowing.

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All harrow, as if harrow were
what the world is made of.

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What we are made of.

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As if harrow were strings to
be strummed, tendons and veins

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to be strummed.

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As if harrow could be
snapped between the teeth.

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The word, one letter from the
white meal inside our bones.

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The meal we could
make of ourselves.

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Harrow.

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Two letters from
the bird who might

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strum with its beak what
the body is made of,

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what the world is made of.

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And in that strumming
become the song''.

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