The Brooklyn Rail

sing with me. find your note
             & draw it—slim stem, black
     hole—draw it out. feel it fill
your throat as movement,
     your mouth as breath, your
             head as sound. slide from
     your note to mine. did you
travel up the staff or down?
     within an octave or into a
             different register? when did
you start to hear my note:

before or after i asked you to
             sing it? what more must your
     diaphragm do to hit my note?
is it comfortable? or a strain?
     return, retune, to your note.
             now jump back & forth. leap
     that interval—palm to aspen,
ginkgo to pine—till you
     could do it in your sleep, in
             your dreams. do your vocal
cords constrict as you leave

your note or as you revisit
             it? does my note ever start
     feeling like yours? when my
voice traces that interval, do
     your eardrums catch your
             heartbeat? here’s my pitch:
     what if we (b)ring our notes
together? to gather & hear
     the vibrations, feel them, in-
             distinctly ours, is key. come
sing—& tremble—with me.