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Description
Under oaken arms, we can't help but bend and break;
and so here, right now, we fall into hoarseness and frustration,
crying out "we don't want you to like us or know us or even smile when we smile" to the audience
who smile and nod and raise their hands up to us in religion and close
their eyes, blossoming with emotion.
We hold ourselves in our lies, pressing them with fervored fingers
into our aching diaphragm, incisions slicing our breath in two from our
four-chambered pulse to the aorta: clean cut and cold in the winter.
Words escaped through the piercings, crying out, "holyholyholy",
with our tongue held to our teeth, bloody. (we drank for hydration's sake)

Spreading our voice upwind into the orchard hill, our fingers reach for
tentative notes in the air, and we can barely hear ourself--
we hope that here, no one else will listen, even though we've always
wanted a voice more than anything else. The wind keeps us silent though,
quieter than we thought we could be, and we choke on our muffled words,
wavering out of harmony with tears in the notes--
the wind pulls at our skin, plucking chords back to pitch,
back up to strong soprano and back down to buzzing bass, and we
squirm uncomfortably in the lines of the measures...
and then I sing for myself, triangle mouthed and sweating, and I cry:

TREMBLE, larynx. Tremble, ubiquitous and self conscious,
cause I've always wanted a syrinx to sing, wordless and crying and glorious. Tremble,
and know that I do not know you, and I do not want you, and you are not a part of me.
Tremble, and know what loneliness and silence tastes like.

Description
Under oaken arms, we can't help but bend and break;
and so here, right now, we fall into hoarseness and frustration,
crying out "we don't want you to like us or know us or even smile when we smile" to the audience
who smile and nod and raise their hands up to us in religion and close
their eyes, blossoming with emotion.
We hold ourselves in our lies, pressing them with fervored fingers
into our aching diaphragm, incisions slicing our breath in two from our
four-chambered pulse to the aorta: clean cut and cold in the winter.
Words escaped through the piercings, crying out, "holyholyholy",
with our tongue held to our teeth, bloody. (we drank for hydration's sake)

Spreading our voice upwind into the orchard hill, our fingers reach for
tentative notes in the air, and we can barely hear ourself--
we hope that here, no one else will listen, even though we've always
wanted a voice more than anything else. The wind keeps us silent though,
quieter than we thought we could be, and we choke on our muffled words,
wavering out of harmony with tears in the notes--
the wind pulls at our skin, plucking chords back to pitch,
back up to strong soprano and back down to buzzing bass, and we
squirm uncomfortably in the lines of the measures...
and then I sing for myself, triangle mouthed and sweating, and I cry:

TREMBLE, larynx. Tremble, ubiquitous and self conscious,
cause I've always wanted a syrinx to sing, wordless and crying and glorious. Tremble,
and know that I do not know you, and I do not want you, and you are not a part of me.
Tremble, and know what loneliness and silence tastes like.