it is a promise
a mournful ballad perched in the throat
waiting for its wings
it is victory drums
beating red as the pulse of the sun
it is the poem poised daringly on my tongue
it is the echo in the floorboards after loving

i swallow words
like glass
force oaths back down
into my belly
it is the possibility of symphony sweet cello solos
arching lustful over flute
we falter
each fall more delicious and painful than the one before
bruises lay gently as petals
is it the beauty of the song that we choke?
a refrain blooming insistent in mouths
the halt and flutter
the stifled song