The way the house says
spider web
in a voice
that looks like
aerial roots
scaling the face of this empty Tudor
the way her free hand
and mine swoop
and lift air
like they belong
to conductors
the way our batons pretend
to not be gnarled sticks
the way crescendo smells
like ivy leaves and brick—
it’s almost as if we know what we’re doing.
Every flourish
conjures more flora
to reclaim
the crossbeams and silica.
When I say flutes!
and swing my stick
like a machete
through waist-high grass
the girl tells me what the swish of it looks like.
I try to picture a sliver
of wind—
detect the sound’s arc.
It’s there for a moment
then lost in the shadow
of the building
our orchestra of vine and leaf
hasn’t quite devoured whole.
When I say strings!
the girl sings
without notes
or words eyes closed
head lolling
like the breeze
is doing something
electric to her hair.
She describes the shade of blue gusting
out of her baton
as it moves
like an archet
over strings.
When the girl says drums!
I break
into a broken
little beatbox
but she covers my mouth
kisses the back of her hand
and begins
to articulate
the green
that just keeps rising out of us.
