by Elizabeth Robinson
Once a man sang in a pure falsetto.
His voice covered his chest like a bib.
His extremities paled and his center grew brighter.
He sang only what he saw. Saw only
what he wanted. Wanted only
to imitate his own voice, asking.
If the alias for “Heaven” were “Who’s Above.”
Asking for its wet, its
pure remainder, to slosh like a stain
onto his chest. A noise. Not a meaning, not
not a response. Sound’s pure, purest splatter.
::
Elizabeth Robinson is a recent winner of a Pushcart Prize. Her books Thirst & Surfeit (Threadsuns Press) and Excursive (Roof Books) are coming out in 2023. Other recent work has appeared in Conjunctions, Image, Plume, Scoundrel Time, and Volt.
Image: Alexandre St-Louis
Image description: Black-and-white photograph of an old man in a white scarf singing and holding his palms together.
Psaltery & Lyre 