The Volume of Grief, Love and Music

4 May 2016

I want to disappear into every song that knows
me. Sometimes, I sing with my arms around

the voice that hurls me and listen to the gap
between my laughter and the night. A voice

said I love you and the voice is a hand I may
never hold. A song said come in, I did and sat

in couplets full of throes. Every love I knew
turned grey: my mother’s lost love, my aunties’

tough love, my lover’s wrong choice—love is
air and dear at the same time—love is the mirror

that tells me how much of them I wear on my face—
love is a nomad so I cover the tracks of my grief

with music and wear my face upright, love upright
that even in my grief I can feel my arms around a song.

Yesterday, I called my lover on the phone and asked
her how I can love with so much grief in the air.

Every night, I wait for her voice to unfurl me. Every
time a song drops inside my ear, my heart breaks,

speaks volume, hears volume, holds volume, I mix
music with night-walks to drive my fears out.

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