Music Box

Two years ago I wrote my own language,
a flash of supple curves, hips, limbs shaped
by rain: gelled beads flowing, darkly,
down an oiled channel. Say mother/land,
say motherboard, this lush mother tongue—
smothered, cut from water. Like water, I slosh
their frames. Open skin, peel the newsprint
sallow in shade, like a present, like the
present, time (fading). Now, at present, browse
these names: beaded hei-tiki, rivière, words
borrowed or gibberish: meaninglessness bull
& blather, such poppycock; these words: cod
-swallop, hogwash. I imagine my mouth as a door
to a room: a vast room, the vastest room
of all rooms—showroom, sunroom. What space,
this room between lung & larynx: music box,
voice box. Inside: the body’s organs, a pipe
organ, feeding wind. The wind-chest: air singing,
air sung—or is it sang? My mouth: a room
full of people. The organs play muzak down
a chamber, a tongue belt belting Vissi d'Arte
in the snow, melting: this precision, this
precipitation. Water, rising—or is it rose?—
against my throat. Roses, a jar of them,
a pear-shaped vase of them. Curves, swelling
beyond the chest: music chest, treasure
chest. Chest of drawers, spilling chestnuts.
Inside, the sound of pounding coils, dense
and homophonic: the flowers are floured,
star-slick and syllabic. See the singing—
deep under a sky the colour of the sea.