The other crows linger
in line with sorrow-swollen eyebrows
raised, tells her she dreams

she dreams often
of those days,

girls hum the
hymn of phone calls;

the guttural vibration
of a ring tone on mute,
a nightingale chattering
its wings together in the
heat of too much summer,

they sweat
out the night
like a bad fever,

the white tank top

let the canaries twist
words in their throats,
reinvent language
as though spectral limbs
could infantilize us.

She uses phrases like: "haha"
to break the silence and ensnare
time in the palm of her hand.