slingshot
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
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
paper planes will disappear
and here it is
in all that white
your stones
they’ll fly
April 2020