Always the interminable spelling
	on my inadequate palm.

One letter at a time, like a slow drip
	off the eaves after a big rain,

and me, still parched, tipping my face
	to the sky, wanting to holler.

If only I could learn to shape air
	into something recognizable.

If only someone would whisper poems
	along the insides of my arms,

a hymn sung by fingertips
	across my belly, all the way

to the peak of each breast,
	my body’s rafters reverberating.

Then, a suspenseful little story
	unfolding up and down my thighs,

finally, a cacophony,
	both lyrical and guttural:

let my little cave echo, trill, open
	like a throat to answer. O, fill my body—

this clumsy, mute organ—with song.