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"If your wife is short, bend over to hear her whisper."
--Talmud
I.
How can I have begun as bone,
Hard, unbroken, when I am soft
And layered with song.
Thighs of Bailero, play your Auvergne flute.*
Gather your wandering brood.
This is the music that closes the eye,
Winks the bone into oblivion,
Soft and soft and soft,
The gorgeous arm that pulls us back
From too much memory.
Every one of the Barry sisters:
Eishes-Chiyell,
Fargess Mich Nit
or Ain Kik Auf Dir.*
The weeping stirs. The airy reed.
I don't understand. And I do.
Chelsea Bridge? Where are you?
This is the music for which we atone,
Resist and desire.
A billion fireflies that lie.
There's another train. There always is.
But you can sing me anything.
Because nothing can happen that has not already happened
To father, To mother,
To ashes, To remorse,
To Elijah inside our tongue's concert.
Because we reconcile hearts of fathers to sons,*
Refuse to die,
Fly on fire,
Resolve the irresolvable.
Because my song smoothes the world.
II.
Music within a bone.
A rib so pliable it bends into the world.
And when I kiss you, bones dissolve
Into the feral, furious, exhaling, inhaling selves.
Our accordion of animal, our odor of soul,
Sliver of clarity, the breath's swoosh
Into the body of surrender.
Ms. Skunk does not care.
She listens; she skulks;
She wumps into my world;
She stills her radiant whiff.
She knows. Life gums in our throats.
Sticks in our bellies like stillbirth.
She understands the wisdom of the skin,
The smells, the tongue.
Like throat singers, we sing our veins.
We sing our skin.
What instrument you play does not matter.
Because I breathe and move for you,
Time stone-blinded and plumed.
And when we loose our tenderness,
Because we always do,
Into our map of thighs,
Our confusion of mane,
Our me and you,
It sings and sings until we sing.
Singular, ribless, all flesh and song.
But today I am not skunk.
Not man. Not woman.
Not night. Not cacophony.
Today I am not skunk. Not man. Not woman.
Not dark. Not light.
If I am not winged, who cares?
If I am not nature's geometry,
Better to Stink:
Allegro of Hair.
Interlude of Breast.
A Navel's Coda.
III.
Skunk. Prophet. Man. Woman.
Insect of bitterness and will.
The distinctions acknowledged.
When I am here, I do not know Who
Or What or If. I do not know Disunion
Or Differentiation or Absolutism
Arching between our skins,
Our hides, our scents.
We breathe our music.
We breathe and stop our breath.
And all we live for and do not live enough for.
*"Bailero, Auvergne" – French folksong
*Songs of the Barry Sisters – Yiddish songs
*"Hearts of fathers to sons" – Malachi 3:24
Amy Small-McKinney’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in various publications, including Elixir, Manhattan Poetry Review, Mad Poets Review, Penn Review Literary Magazine, and Poetica. Her poem, "Dust," was recently accepted for inclusion in a 9.11 Peace Poetry anthology. She is scheduled to read this summer at the 2003 Chenango Valley Writer's Conference.
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