because the senses                crave melody

it drips;   a whistle caught in   cotton vill  i

sit.                                  nothing—

this body is beyond capture. but is a simple

sound.                       whistle;

          [elelelelelele]   ululation.

it drips;   heat     exit graft;         each twitch

splits—

the hairs on my spine.                   bird shit

red stone;      or white paint    or red

flows  across tit.                      all i      think

about                                     is     Beyonce.

chair tipped               touch                 wood

did she                                       mean to fly

or dive        or die              or maybe if i am

less boring        each act will surrender into

performance.                           so i practice;

each evening    accent regales      reflection

neck;                 checks over shoulder

no ghosts around                      as audience.

& wonder                     how  twenty women

emerge                  eyes filled with direction;

i picture each of their bodies   turn to paper

 &    flint                  markings

                              on the surface;

pitch them to an              ocean of carpet—

grow tired &                             begin to sing

                                   a lullaby.