oboe
the instruments we make
drums trumpets guitars
take our breath and
fingers
and beat us
sweetly into shape, but
reeds, the thin sliver
an almost splint we
soak
to our tongue
to relax it enough to
resist
cracking. oh tell me if it broke
before we were assured
it was warm enough
wet enough
we wouldn’t for one or
two
breaths
weep at it before we
repair
to the next one
to our mock patience
to our hot wet tongue
relaxing the oboe’s
reed
the thinnest of beings
the nightingale in our
mouth
pressing her breast
against the sharpest
thorn
for her astonishing song
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