Bury the missing,
the lost,
the abandoned,

Bury them deep,
where the new weather
won’t find them.

Bury them deep,
between the spring bulbs
and potato eyes,

Bury them deep,
each time they rise,

Bury them deep -
it muffles their cries.

bleach them from your heart,
that balled sheet stained
by every lover,
and we will make fresh marks.

we will paint
into the fabric
an intricate pattern
that will shimmer
under study
and the steadiest finger
could not trace
its delicate curves
to their beginnings
or their ends

A Siren loved a sailor once.
This did not save him
from her sisters.

He never saw his daughter
or her loving aunts
throw her in the sea.

Poseidon, out of character,
sent a pod of dolphins
to ferry the infant to shore

and leave her in the surf
at the feet of a beachcomber
he had widowed.

The child was raised well
and as a young woman
had no lack of suitors.

Her daughter, like her,
like her grand-daughters
and every girl child in her line,

where ever they stayed
or ventured, were known
for the effect

their singing, their speaking,
even an audible intake of breath,
would have on men.

I am telling you this story
so that you might have
some understanding

of why i can’t draw away
from the music in your voice.