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Poetry

I sing for fear I’ll hear the still
small voice and not like what it says.
I croon to make my skull full

as a squat hive and the honey
is my cracked song, my sting in the throat.
O I know a bee is not a melody

but I must come to terms with what
it is that leaves me hoarse
that keeps my house awake all night.

The one I love mouths we are lost
behind my back, which means nothing,
but this is what I fear the most.

Listen. The unsung is unuttering,
sucking back into itself,
the inverse of words, an unworn ring.


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