Soliloquy

1.

In the music is a trumpet. In the trumpet, a man’s breath. The night is littered
with secrets. The path through the dark is lined with manicured hedges
which someone has trimmed to resemble the cursive letters of the alphabet.

Gardener infatuated with the beginning and the end.

In the middle is a lone violin. The breath of the instrument is tainted

with the death of a child that we realize is the fault of the crowd.
The crowd hold their hands slack against their ears. I am hungry.
The trumpet is playing faster.

Metal shears are found in a body of water. The innocent, put on trial.
The crowd has carried a piano into the court room and are splintering it
into firewood to burn on the lawn. The final breaths of the sound nearly
exhausted, leave only the single horn

of a barge on the water. Crawling. We have made our way finally to the table
to dine. We attempt to fabricate orchestra with utensils, beating the surface
where the child once ate alongside us before she was carried away. Night
is inevitable.

2.

A man tips his instrument to eject its plug of saliva. The hearts of the crowd
count themselves fortunate. I am home, safe, in the shower. In the shower
are bottles of honeysuckle and images of waterfalls.

I hum a little as I soak my back and my legs. These limbs will carry me
many more years. My husband plays the music again with its pluck

of wind. With the sorrow of bells and the long walk of children
toward the man holding his breath as if cupping a hummingbird.