When I write down your “nanananas” and “lalalas”
I cannot make it sound like a melody:
you have a voice
and I only have fingers that cannot play the harpsichord
feet that stumble over themselves, while yours
stumble over strings and vowels and pretty breaths.
I prayed to God just so he would tell me
how to explain the way you lace symphonies together
white drugs laced with a more dangerous one
you exhale vanilla and formaldehyde
and your hiccups win first prize.
You remind me that we are all healing but we cannot all
throw our bodies in Lynches River
or Lake Pontchartrain
because there are not enough black garbage bags.
You remind me
not to swallow cement
so I get filled up with semen instead.
I hope that you do not drink too much water
to make room for pink milkshakes and doughnut holes
so honored to be inside you they
reach up and hold your voicebox like a shooting star,
I hope that you are selfish sometimes
like when I read my words just as you would sing them.
