CALL ME BELOVED

I remember singing, the microphone hanging
fifteen feet somewhere past where our notes just were –
the spotlight reflected off my shirt onto the sheet music.

I could never read it, anyway – the notes went up
and my voice would follow, simple work on mad wednesdays
when my bag was heavy and my feet were tired. six o’clock –
watch the sun go down through the branches our the doors, see the campus shuttles drive
round the circle.

they’d take me home later, read my sheet music in my
converted nuns quarters, place my mug in an asinine sink.
I hung my favorite words on the wall, hoping somehow
that they would leap out at me at an opportune time.
I spend my days waiting, watching the sun do down
through the trees out my window.

it’s one o’ clock now, remembering two years ago when
the notes went up, and my voice followed – we hung notes
on the microphone, a mad rush of order forced with baton
onto the chaos of our voices. I remember how it was here
where things made sense – where the music and the very
worthwhile thing inside of us
came naturally, the way I remember –

the way I remember, while sitting in the cold morning.
I’m alone with my thoughts and the words don’t come easily.