By Sarah Thursday
It’s still the music—
how is replaces the pulse in your veins
how it stops all the other voices,
your own cut-throat deafening.
You still swallow volume
guzzle it down like hard cider.
In that way, they can sing from the inside out.
They balloon inside your heart
pressing up against limping muscle
until its ache rests in them.
You will always have it—
when love after love after love leaves
it still gets darker. Still you
wrap your skin in minor chords
mummy-tight until you can only move
in the way they sway rhythm.
You don’t fight that.
For a while you are carried by it.
You rest in black—
how it still comforts you.
Sometimes and eventually the music moves you forward.
Slow beats for slow steps
when you are ready to hit the ground
on your own swollen feet.
You will, as you always have, exhale melody
for the rest of your days.
I read this poem over and over, and it startled me over and over with its wild aptness, its strangeness, and sudden familiarity … beautifully expressed