Paloma

15

I'm hushed
a porcelain bobble in the cold sweat of night
playing with your fingers as though
dreaming of a ghost piano,
a keyboard pounded with muffled noise into the neighbor's floor
vibrating, there we lay surreally
melting clocks over a branch of Dali,
we stretched out and sank against blue gymnastic mats
stuffing erupting under elbows and hipbones, and you told me to sing
music box melodies like shards of glass up my throat
the individual notes, half beat, quarter note, sticking precision
tangling with vocal cords, I was gasping for thick trumpet
honey and dark chocolate melting across silver plates, saxophone
chasing itself into a frenzy low within my stomach
here was Frank Sinatra letting summer loose at the nape of my neck
Nat King Cole deep and full under my chin
here was Billie Holiday bright against my collar
lyrics like foam off your bottom lip
that grin was twisting about, unsure and distorted
I could see you, cracking my wrists until the veins and bones were
splintered and sticking out, all white and glass
I could see you stealing my hands, nudging them, curled up into your pockets
And I would keep singing, no music to hold the tune, no melody or rhythm
just thin, coaxed out soprano
my fingers still twitching against your thigh