I have strung pearls across
my blooming throat
to adorn the God I found sleeping

might have been a plume of smoke
or a muttering insect

may have been a song about swans
or locusts or war or any other
dirty fascination of man
any other instrument molded by hands
not held against the chest
groping for grace

but instead
I have found myself swaying
silently in the boughs of trees
a sister to the months in which
gold is born of bees
my lips are simple frets among the chorus
i bend low to listen

before I speak.

01/27/2011

Author's Note: I might enter this in a contest. Please give some advice/criticism/feedback...thank you.

Posted on 01/28/2011
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