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Ode to Sylvia
everything she said was like a secret voice
speaking straight out of my own bones
it was an arching, swooping,
melody as old as time
bubbling up from somewhere hidden
in the tender crevices of my being
it slid out of my skeleton
wet and slippery as a fish
like pure, sweet music
spilling from the mouth of a flute
it dove into my veins
harmonizing with the throbbing, roaring rush
of my red hot blood
it poured past my flesh and sinews
and burst through my skin
like a water balloon ruptures
drenching me in the fresh, raw, underadulerated joy
of being completely and totally understood
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