Sing

when you cannot sing


when you cannot sing loud, sing
laced with tender notes.
make soft your everything.

when you cannot cry out, cry
wholly from your bones.
make soft your everything.

and fill your oven with eggplant parmesan, lay
the afghans across the sofa, for peace will come
walking slow out of the morning veils,
toward your creaking voice, hungry and shivering.

when you cannot dream, sleep
heavily spread over the humming night.
flicker your eyes again.

when you cannot run, walk
honest with a face made for the day.
flicker your eyes again.

and sprinkle cloves in with the cookies—you
uncorked refugee—scribble a joy on your wrist
for the humdrum march of tomorrow, turn off the lights,
undress, learn the tune of your skin.