A l~u~l~l~a~b~y
   or a tired sigh

            a chuckle

                      a laugh

                 a      dam        burst        open

      A SHOUT
             a cry
(a secret unopened)


                     Soft prayers and sleepy groans
             or stand-up hairs from guttural moans

But my favorite is the whisper
(through the dark
and in the night)
it's the one that
shouts through tears
"it will be alright"

But my favorite is the whisper
(in the soft gold
morning sun)
it's the one that
wakes my heart and
pulls my strings undone.

But my favorite is the whisper
(in the race
of passing time)

it's the one that
shouts from mountains

            you,
         my dear,
         *are mine.

There is a storm
gathering in
            my womb
soon to explode
into a thousand
crimson stars
lighting up
my veins with fire
and unraveling
deep-set,
          knotted scars
and the gentle rage
outside my window
presses on, inside my head
as I lie here,
my thoughts twisted
in a cozy, yet empty bed
my thoughts unfurl
in misty haze
           curl into
                      smoky
                 rouge
as nightsky thunder rolls
into creamed saxophone
                          deluge
the snare drum beats
in firelight
ripple sheets
in silky flutter
as my fingers strum
my womanly instruments
into loamy, primal butter
my voice in quiet utterance
as the heavens open
           to heavy rains
                    that liquefy
                           my desert
                 hydrate my
           bare-soul caves
so I electrify my echoes
into fruited, crystal drips
frothing up my
cherry wine
upon these moistened,
hungry lips

vivid blushes of cerise
painted the morn's waking dawn
they served as a portent
to the coming rains