Phonetics

The boy beneath the skin tells her a story

about stones thrown in a lake, and naming them for their sound.

Blabo— he called.

For the moment their weight

broke heavy through the surface.

And she opens

her ears

to a phonetics     of living

to a path

made of the body

              the voice

              the pulse
                         of an instant.

She asks him then
to take her
to that place where memory
carves a dream over flesh

shivering amber through the trees.

                                              2002/11