Forgetting to tie my shoes
or cook breakfast,
like an idiot savant
crunching numbers
between his teeth,
savoring their sweet-saltiness
and solving problems faster
than calculator memory,
or the five-year-old that bows deep,
bowing and plucking violin strings
with more skill than the first chair
at the symphony,
muse-driven and ridden 60 days in a row,
I breathe in air like everyone else
but exhale poetry.
So long silent, the song
strokes the harp of my ribs.
My blood sounds a descant
decanted through veins
and the bones of my neck
ping tone like a long xylophone
as this pulse turns drum
and thrums a backbeat
that echoes in marrow.
Struck and humming,
I become the instrument
I was created to be;
the hammered key,
the breath of the horn,
the flights of a voice
when it’s freed.
***for dVerse. Rework of something written in May. Probably not done yet, but does include a lot of the devices Gay spoke about today.
Susan Daniels Poetry 