Her Song

My floors are buried in dog hair so I
pull out the vacuum
Lauryn Hill’s rich, bottomless voice
soars over the bellow of my cleaning
She rouses my tired arms
and together we sing
about everything
Her afro bobs next to mine in the living room
Gazing at the crowd’s beaming faces,
we leap out
surfing the music
of briny saltwater
Birds crying overhead
calling our names
more honestly
than any creature ever has
I ride the tide into sand
My skin embraced
by scarlet crabs
I welcome their sting
Even this dissolves as I sail
across the ancient grains
A flawless weathered shell
aging with the sea
Emerging from the ocean,
I realize I’ve spilled
the vacuum bag again, hair and dust and flecks
of stale food spilling on the ground
I collect some of the scraps
but abandon my task as the murmur of the next anthem
purrs in my ears
Her voice croons sadly and brilliantly
about her destiny
She invites me to step
like silk into woods
Our very bones soaked by rain
the drops are cold and welcome
We glide into the forest
and then our limbs spread out
until there is no single trunk or leaf
seen from above
Just a curtain
of green touching green

Katie Gleason is a social worker, counselor, poet and teacher living in Arizona. She is Master student of and workshop teacher for The Writers Studio Tucson. Her work has appeared in Gnarled Oak and O-Dark-Thirty, among others. Originally from the Pacific Northwest, she now inhabits the desert with her husband and two greyhounds.

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