Zita Consani
house call
in half-curl languid on the couch
(the mother chides her not to slouch)
they chit to her the usual chat
(she edging back from doggy pat)
this child who is like secret cat
(a faint impression left on sands,
will o’ the wisp with china hands)
to mute music
in union we move
(but say no word)
yeah
we two curious birds
(in rooms like these where others cough
and bump their knees)
dream
of arc-high sky
sing
with silent tongues
and
fly
https://truml.com