A Piaf Note

last night I dreamed that I heard
your voice on the radio,
soaring like a Piaf note
over papers of the dead.
it quavered for minutes,
standing my hair on end
and making me sweat.
when it stopped,
I mourned it like a dead brother -
a witness gone with no goodbye.
there was silence for a moment,
then song again.
silence.
song.
and again.
was I sleeping?
upon waking
I demand that you sing.
not later,
not after breakfast.
give me your lungs
and your throat;
pour them onto the pillow
I want to feel them,
not just hear them in my dreams.
don't wait
don't think
just sing.
ah yes,
now I hear you:
nightdream hair,
morning in your lashes,
scrawling shorthand with your lips

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