La Voix Humaine

I speak of the breast best, mother Mary and her voiceless love. My pillow-talk told to doves and divas. And my voice sounds in the whale bone, in the thunder of workaday ants in their Brooklyn bodega’s. The breathless, the brazen those who bargain and barter their marketplace musical masterpieces, let them unsling all vocal vending’s be they sharp or velvet in a caroling of living daylights. Talk is dirt, let our mute fingers plow; what we say, we say beneath the light where ancient suns still lay voiceless. I am a penny opera, you are the song of the earth, my throat swallows words turns them into raw diamonds for your cleaving, facets you polish with chorus and chant. Where you echo I follow washing my face in your timbre and tone. Deliver us plain into a Voice, one chord struck as clear as a chisels gleaming cut. Utter me in your tongue and I will croon you in the womb where a common blood speaks. Proclaim your revelations in a simple song, an anthem for us to pray at the end of our tolerable, unsung days.