Some days
I could become birdsong.
Whistle and trill.
I mean the thing that unwinds
the morning from the night
and sings the tilt
toward evening back again.
I could be desire
that takes shape inside the breast--
pitched out in hope,
attenuated on the myriad leaves.
I mean the thing itself,
not plumage, nor heaven-filled bones.
Not the quivered throat,
but the note itself:
curved from syrinx and lung,
tensed, flexed in the veil of membranes.
The song flung out to the world.
The hum and breath.
The whole sweet story.
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Melissa Montimurro lives in rural northwestern New Jersey, where she teaches poetry workshops in the schools. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in a number of journals and magazines, in print and online, including Literal Latte, Kalliope, Tundra, Three Candles, ForPoetry, Bugle, Snowy Egret, Iris, The Comstock Review, Runes, American Tanka, Clay Palm Review, Square Lake, and others. Her chapbook, "Onion Festival Seeks Queen," was published by Pudding House in 2002.
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