It’s In Her Voice

Embedded like a drum roll from my first parade
I get a wind of the reason I write waltzes in the winter
And I share with her the fathom made by shucking
The perfect oyster and all of the surreal fantasies the tongue can imagine
I discover the sound of a torrid fire looking for water
It’s in her voice
As a boy I so welcomed the night in the summer
Various songs of the West Virginia fireflies and the blistering thunder
And I share with her the diva’s cry in the years of
Tears and the sizzling ache of new lovers behind the thinnest of walls
I fall into the piles of sighs she betrays in such hesitancy
It’s in her voice
Ten of them aligned on each finger so securely
Italian and Greek fruit that hang there for temptation
I witness it each time she whispers in the heat of
The blessed olive (damn which color) and the shout of the daily coffee
I would gladly drink my wine only from her utterance
It’s in her voice
Exposed as an exigent moment to the thrust of the seasons
And the tempo of those elements plied from her breath
I swig down the paradox of her daily rhythms as the
Patterns find a course from spring to summer in her salty, hidrotic satiated vocalese
I rivet to the wheels turning in her Venus and swim so simply
It’s in her voice

K. Roberti