Choirgirl
Friday night is for rehearsal
sac in air, before
it breaks— breath out
into the soft dew
itching palms on our head.
Soon the baritones will arrive
stuffing music with tonic notes
for me to ride:
the terrors of solmization
& unbridled pitch sounds.
Boys says Sunday without your
mezzo-sopranos is like a
metaphor of plus-nine terrors
—pounded noise
cooked in a lour supper.
But the pontiff won't heed.
Please sing alongside with me,
the Lord's song is becoming
pitching and modulating
rock and pop
touring on one voice.
Excel Chinagorom Michael
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