The Singer Will Not Sing

FOR A. L.

A benison given. Unused, no angels promised, wings fluttering banal lies behind their sexlessness. No trumpets gloried prophecies of fabled fame. Yet harmonies waited in her stiff throat. New notes lay expectant on her stilled tongue. Her lips are ridged and fleshy. Purpled night birds snuggled to rest. The mouth seamed, voiceless. Sounds do not lift beyond those reddened walls. She came too late and lonely to this place.