Step One: you take me down

to the water where

you wash your

hands of

me,

and then,

feeling loads lighter,

you crane your neck to the sky

and Shout! like the hawk you are,

beating your wings through

the vast sky that

you own,

and then swooping

down to the ground below

to swallow up the mice and rats

and other birds that you also own, oh king of the sky.

Step two: you write me across your skin

like an anthem, feeling the way

I beat and churn

and tear

inside

your ancient leathered lungs,

hearing the way I scream inside your varicose heart.

Do you remember the way your heart felt in its

skeleton cage, as it threatened to burst

out of its container? And do you

remember the way

your marrow

sang

in its bones,

not a melancholy song,

but one of fragile triumph and nervous synergy?

Step three:  you remember

the song and its

sound.

You remember the

way that you felt. You open your

Earth lips and sing our lovely, lilting song.