Universal, à la Edith
and reel down the line.
A phonograph streams from the mesh
where melodious tusks and ebony shine
with the throaty allure of her song.
I don’t understand a word.
I’ve never spoken in French,
but the curl of her vowels swells
in my chest. Possessed,
I sing the notes.
On the kitchen floor,
I dance barefoot. In 4/4 time,
I make the tea, like serpentine sand
or a current’s ripple, seduced
by unknown words.