And a Perfectly Sore Throat.
When he said water, it sounded like wetter, though he wasn’t wrong in doing so.
We went throat singing on the last day of the year.
We did it at the end of the river, like the end of the river, into the lake.
We were told about the gift of extra sighs, that shallow lungs too often give.
All of the different ways we can and cannot breathe.
We met a man with a four-four hiccup count,
his beating life blessed with perfect regularity.
His heart always gulping down the drowning sound of swallowing.
“Is that throat singing?” you asked, quietly beside me.
“I think it’s more of a throat percussion.” I said.
The lake was five miles away, it had to be far enough, to get the breath out.
They called that run the sound check.
I raced you through the woods, along the river, like the river, to the lake.
Where we met the fish, that came to hear us sing.
He pointed out their clapping mouths.
I said it was your throat singing, it was your throat singing.
Their mouths were tiny white caps, their tiny white caps played the applause,
like rain or waves, on other days.
We were just out of breath, but louder, which for you, was absolute.
We sang on our toes, like thirty-one days in December.
his two longest fingers, pressed us,
two feet in front of us, to breath louder,
and more, with more. After we were done, with my last best lung, and a perfectly sore throat,
I asked you, what you sang about.
And you shook your head, no, I’m not telling, smiling.
I sang about everything, I said, serious as a choke.
My eyes out of breath, my hands now doing the talking. I asked again, almost laughing, what you sang about.