by Precious Jones

of losing you
cannot be
captured fully
in an iamb,
the stressed-unstressed
rhythm of my regret
could never be
or harmonious, nor
will the lyric

of your lips
resonate for anyone
but me,
so I sing you softly,

play your hands
like a harp,
pluck each finger
'til they rest
around my waist,
I sing your heart,
a medley of notes

I couldn't read,

couldn't reach,
but I am soprano
and release the
melody of you
from the core of me
where it laid dormant
one thousand,
four hundred and
forty days.

Until today.

Copyright © 2005. Used by permission of author. All Rights Reserved.

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