Against the grinding fever of suppressed
song, against a muzzle’s searing, sound
is a muscle. The body’s rebuttal,
a kind of clamoring
held to seethe. Against siren-women, against
cliché’s cacophony, we keep spinning, spooling
counterpoint, contrapuntal, the contraband
of roots, radical, fractal, optional, historical—
Drink this. Sing this: our tongues will not be bridled
as though miniature ponies put out to pasture.
Nor will our tales be jeered as old-wives’ blather.
Against hush-hush, tsk-tsk, we stream melodies
through barbwire even when vexed, breathless
as popped balloons. Even then
our sound surges through
hex into galloping hymn.