Ode
There is a language
scratched upon your pages
that I cannot read,
that you translate for me
with fingers upon keys,
with knuckles dancing beneath flesh
worn thin as onion skin
by the bending sickle’s compass
come to fetch you.
I never learned to read,
but if you ask me to speak
the truth for you,
to sit upon the bench
where you might have taught me
to make a joyful noise,
I would conjure a cacophony
that would curl your hair
and the corners of your lips.
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