You staple sound to language. Even a compliment 
drowns in the haze of you, crawls in with good 
intentions, then is covered in stench, 
some Allegheny songbird left lingering 

in a landfill. You learn the chord of C
to stay in the middle, to remind me 
who taught me to sing, taught me to tilt
my head so many ways. At night 

you will not let me sleep, you hum 
the price of the lord’s prayer 
that I could never afford 
to believe. You think I love you,

love the fog you cover me in,
and I do. I can hide everyone inside 
you. Inside (humble) only you know 
I hate myself so beautifully. Remember 

how I started to pull you out of me? 
Holes appeared. Adults crawled out 
singing songs, and when children joined in 
the holes opened into trails. Remember 

the last time I led a hike with kids 
in Ohio? A little girl asked if we’d see 
elephants in the woods. When I said “no”
she asked if we could go deeper in and find them. 

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