By Michael OndaatjeYour voice sounds like a scorpion being pushedthrough a glass tubelike someone has just trod on a peacocklike wind howling in a coconutlike a rusty bible, like someone pulling barbed wireacross a stone courtyard, like a pig drowning,a vattacka being frieda bone shaking handsa frog singing at Carnegie Hall.
Like a crow swimming in milk,
like a nose being hit by a mangolike the crowd at the Royal-Thornian match,a womb full of twins, a pariah dogwith a magpie in its mouthlike the midnight jet from Casablancalike Air Pakistan curry,a typewriter on fire, like a spirit in the gaswhich cooks your dinner, like a hundredpappadans being crunch...
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