Do not Speak, the Storm is Coming on a String

The big bang expands darkness one body at a time making space its own. I heard the cosmic background music It sounded like a trumpet

Its deep call shattering inside churches’ walls

Let there be light breaking in geometries until my skin answers crawling

The call falters in the words of a poet it recovers in the body alphabet of a sign dancer hands and face shaped in a woman interloper between mediums and meanings

The herald calls her trumpet and the universe expands sitting bodies atop standing ones. Settling in patterns like the tiles of the Alhambra until the maze loses itself.

Before the word there was music

When sounds make bombs, unhappy at the sight of babies sucking the tits of rubble the universe retracts. Yet olive trees raise branches in the zig zag scratches of a violin

The trumpet calls deeper washing silence The world knits its wounds looking for forms to hold a moment in a line silence talks in pulses

The tree grows in the space between death and the firefly and the world grows rocks to steady the breath of its cello

Why talk when the world sings?

Because of death we live the world re-forms into the eye of a flower and the woman speaks face and fingers on her dress paged black. Her alphabet moves she stills—

silence

Our children spill in curves of light and we tremble

Yaz, herald of the Big Bang recalls her notes But are there words to carry the heartbeat of a universe? Its blood is light, waves its vessels, listen with the skin of your lips to its tremors.

But do not speak. The storm is coming on a string