What the Ear Hears the Lips Sing


Of course I would think
we'd be drinking coffee
after we're dead: dig my grave
both long and narrow--

of course a hymn, a gospel
song must take hunger, take
thirst into account: make my
coffee neat and strong--

of course, what else is there
to carry beyond the tomb--our
dirt boat, its green sail: two,
two at my head--

but the dark aroma at
cup's bottom, its bitter taste
balanced by the moon: two,
two at my feet--

sweet wafer--persimmon
velvet--under the tongue, as it
sails us through that final
night.  Never to wake.  Never

to remember that dream.

Anne Becker