Sing me, lover, sing me, poet,Rebecca Lindenberg
sing me pomegranates and headstones. Sing me into this or that myth. Sing me into the soft-throbbing body of a bird in the palm. Sing me into the throat of a minstrel in the January of a long, long year. Sing me a camera lucida or obscura, sing me how you see me because I can’t. I can sing you marbleflesh of statue, pursuit caught. I can sing a sharp needle into soft flesh, like a just-right word into talk. I can sing my anger which sings me sometimes; you say hard at work, I see and take a look at this, will you and something about the future. Sing me a future, shared – scent of salt-grass, sting of honey, sound of rice poured into a pan. Please, poet, lover, please. Sing.
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