I didn’t speak until I was five
Because everything was sound.
My mother’s high heel was a slide
Her foot sang into. The rectangle
Of the coffee table was a clinking
Glass and a book that played
The violin. I couldn’t speak
Because I was the scream turned
Inside out, a tree branch moving
Through the blue song of yesterday.
The first time I heard a tango
I knew it was a purple rising
Through the folds of want