Can you actually hear my little rasp in the back row?
OK.
I'm really trying.
I'm so sorry.
Of all the times to lose your voice
this-- it feels like karma.
Like, I don't know what I have done.
But I'm so-- I'm so sorry, universe,
please give me my voice back.
OK.
This poem is called ''Harrowing''.
I mean, Kathleen Turner does this just on the regular,
right.
So, like, maybe this is just the new normal.
I can go karaoke Bette Davis Eyes tonight
and it would sound really authentic.
I can do my best '80s Kim Carnes.
OK.
This poem is called ''Harrowing''.
''The world is harrowing.
Harrowing.
All harrow, as if harrow were what the world is made of.
What we are made of.
As if harrow were strings to be strummed, tendons and veins
to be strummed.
As if harrow could be snapped between the teeth.
The word, one letter from the white meal inside our bones.
The meal we could make of ourselves.
Harrow.
Two letters from the bird who might
strum with its beak what the body is made of,
what the world is made of.
And in that strumming become the song''.