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A twinge at the edge of her lips and she continued, the soft, slow lilt of recitation: "ancient walls that sing the distant hours.
-Kate Morton
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A Twinge At The Edge Of Her

Kate Morton
A twinge at the edge of her lips and she continued, the soft, slow lilt of recitation: "ancient walls that sing the distant hours.
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Wall Lips Ancient

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Somebody/ anybody sing a black girl's song bring her out to know herself to know you but sing her rhythms carin/ struggle/ hard times sing her song of life she's been dead so long closed in silence so long she doesn't know the sound of her own voice her infinite beauty she's half-notes scattered without rhythm/ no tune sing her sighs sing the song of her possibilities sing a righteous gospel let her be born let her be born & handled warmly.
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Eventually she came. she appeared suddenly, exactly like she'd done that day- she stepped into the sunshine, she jumped, she laughed and threw her head back, so her long ponytail nearly grazed the waistband of her jeans. after that, i couldn't think about anything else. the mole on the inside of her right elbow, like a dark blot of ink. the way she ripped her nails to shreds when she was nervous. her eyes, deep as a promise. her stomach, pale and soft and gorgeous, and the tiny dark cavity of her belly button. i nearly went crazy.
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For the hearts of nurses are solid gold, / but their heels are flat and their hands are cold, / and their voices lilt with a lilt that's falser / than the smile of an exhibition waltzer. / yes, nurses can cure you, nurses restore you, / but nurses are bound that they do things for you.
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And she loved a man who was made out of nothing. a few hours without him and right away she’d be missing him with her whole body, sitting in her office surrounded by polyethylene and concrete and thinking of him. and every time she’d boil water for coffee in her ground-floor office, she’d let the steam cover her face, imagining it was him stroking her cheeks, her eyelids and she’d wait for the day to be over, so she could go to her apartment building, climb the flight of stairs, turn the key in the door, and find him waiting for her, naked and still between the sheets of her empty bed.
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“simon,” she whispered, vaguely surprised that she had just used his first name, for she had never used it even in the privacy of her thoughts. moistening her dry lips, she tried once more, and to her astonishment, she did it again. “simon…” “yes?” a new tension had entered his long, hard body, and at the same time, his hand moved over the shape of her skull in the softest caress possible. “please… take me to my room.” hunt tilted her head back gently and regarded her with a sudden faint smile playing on his lips. “sweetheart, i would take you to timbuktu if you asked.“
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Someone once asked me why people sing. i answered that they sing for many of the same reasons the birds sing. they sing for a mate, to claim their territory, or simply to give voice to the delight of being alive in the midst of a beautiful day. perhaps more than the birds do, humans hold a grudge. they sing to complain of how grievously they have been wronged, and how to avoid it in the future. they sing to help themselves execute a job of work. they sing so the subsequent generations won’t forget what the current generation endured, or dreamed, or delighted in.
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