Race and Religion in Creative Consciousness

While I hung up our coats, you slipped away
between the harpsichord and violins
in cases. When I turned, you’d found a place
to settle in the dark, as if you’d been

here always, silhouetted against the blue
and fluorescing rectangles of sky.
I know that sound is waves; and yet when you
were singing, it felt solid, like a knife.

I didn’t dare reach out. I saw you raise
and lower one of your hands—some singer thing
I didn’t understand—an arcane phrase
intoned, tied to the motion like a string—

I heard. I couldn’t know it, didn’t care.
You sang too deep. I feel like you’re still there.

Spring 2010. For Cara.