for Meredith Monk
Simple to say
the voice rises out of the body but let’s
say instead it’s gathered
in the forge of the legs
out of the gothic lift, each foot,
fed through the arms, the fingers
that touch it where it lives, outside.
Rolled in the hips. All
stillness and continuance. If it rises
it’s lighter than the air it rides. Rare,
a molecule per inch, but that one with the print
of dust on it, loud and
true as the instrument
she’s made for it.