In your heart, there’s one more song to be written.
So she drills a hole and watches the ornaments twirl.
Sunshine fills this puddle of dirt, oil, and spit.
That’s what you were given, so that’s what she gets.
And there’s a fault line that everyone must tread,
for the fears gathering angels in the whirl of her bed.
When I’m older and you’re still a child,
we will excavate that cruel black street we trespassed on.
It’s unforgiving; the sum of everyone’s dull awakening.
Each morning, it’s too distant to know the words but for the thump of their consonants.
They burn pinholes out through your skin until you find their meaning, join them in union, and record the voice of their children on the tape, the magnetic tape spiraling out the end of a pen.
For every creak, vowel, and harvest,
I listen for the torment to groan aloud and cry to his lover, the past, the past that makes our future tremble with desire to wash these colors out.
This is the swirling oil, dirt, and spit reflecting the hole she drilled the length of your hand below your lip.
If this be the last poem I write, let it drip to the stream that all poets stain with ink, and cleansed through her ear, the maze, and back to her throat, speaking to the living world, “one final poem is born.”