here it is

a single friction underneath a cello’s bow

the longitude is sharp and pricks her spine stretched back with silky stones to spare

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effort greets the sun before her, swaddles the moon behind it

optics twist inside the flood

she’s sick with wet and a knotted rib that cracks, swings, and falls

a branch consumed

what’s traced her middle-hairs down, down

 

as it serves

every concert’s a dirge to the one before it, they both agree

or do they?

every note’s recorded and sung

on who’s tree?

figs are sweeter after spring

unless they rot

 

she admires her flesh pressing the net

 

aching from her luck

waking new in prairie’s seas

she’ll thank each grass

blade by blade

for their part in her empty tongue

 

if only she knew now what she knew then

that her secrets were noise

her letters, the key

her silence, the math

 

hold your breath, little girl

the end of war will ring out in the heat

the hooks will tear

the scars will bleed

and here it is

you’ll sing

 

arrows will arc beyond their music

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paper planes will disappear

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and here it is

​

in all that white

​

your stones

​

they’ll fly

 

April 2020 

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