It's round here. All open full mouths plastic cups with fat handles
gentle sloped corners that invite knees backs open palms.
And it sounds low, soft perpetually tenor. A place where everything
is meant to be held licked dropped.
The television is never on. Instead, songs. I listen, above
the albino zebra stripped ceiling fluffy carpet like a rabbit's
underbelly homemade knitted slippers (pink with blue tassels).
And that's round too. Notes pour from lips into bubbles tiny
chubby hands grab clutch release. Pull closer. Swallow them. She
blows movement into sounds that make legs kick and pink glossy
I don't know the words. Instead, chose Gogol and a curiosity
for Quebecois musicians. Spanish was lost in loud hostels where
red ant infestations and tall shiny shoes grabbed more attention.
Because glazed boys and lingering girls wanted to hear my accent
and I forgot about theirs.
But I understand the melodies, simple swaying rhythms wrote
in the spaces between them (him: padded between pillows on the
floor, her: cross-legged beside). Passed in the bellies of heavy
wholes and lighter halves. Swung back and forth under (sometimes
above) the lines. This music runs off scores' pages combines many
parts and smudges tones into shades with hazy edges. Neither E
flat minor or F sharp major.
There aren't any bar lines. Hers is a fluid staff where breaths
are marked in kisses instead of apostrophes and spaces shift each
hour day week depending on the windstorm morning phone call from
Miami or last night's sleep. Never conducted.
The words, secondary. To sip from this sound translates more
than tourist phrase books or night class tests on pronunciation
It lilts in its own language, never practiced but always flawless.
Learned first from an expanding tummy, now in a blue-framed snuggly
on spring walks along streets with purple crocuses and labs on
Taught (for free) upstairs.
Because these songs are his. And she is always learning.
Sarah Glen has been
waiting, maybe concerned some.