Shall I tell you the story of the man
who loved playing his cello
and hated having to talk,
so much, that he tore his throat open
like a geode
and slid his rosined bow along
the taut lines of his vocal cords?

Or perhaps about the woman who built a birdcage
between her ribs ; the manic hummingbirds
that flitted there on days of delight,
that morphed to songless, flightless
dodos on days of drawn curtains,
untoasted bread, and dirty hair.

Then, of course, there is you,
fantastic flotsam, beautiful debris, you.
How sometimes, to seek escape,
you become a pearl button on my blouse,
brushing against my skin throughout the day.
You hold me together, I keep you warm.