cam·pa·nol·o·gy

My sister was married under the sound—

a church by the sea, white gown barnacled

to her body. She dragged the train behind her

as a mother pulls a petulant child

away from the water.

~

I climbed

the clock tower

before

I held you

beneath it

before

your body

became a bell

I wanted

to ring

~

At the end of a sitting meditation,

the teacher tells us to track the chimes

until they collapse—each dong

a wave swooning into silence.

~

the sort of stillness you love a calculus exam

proofs rustling awake

under flakes of eraser

dark curve we huddle under

~

Curls of prosciutto,

green olives, bread.

After dinner, we fall

asleep holding each other

before the doorbell

startles us apart.

~

For years I misheard

the lyrics from the soundtrack

of Le scaphandre et le papillon—

I fell into the ocean when you became my wife

I fell into the ocean and you became my wave

~

You are oceans away. I make the bed,

run, meditate, eat my spinach.

Good tone means that a bell must be in tune with itself.

Without you here, it is hard even to listen.

~

no music without anatomy

ear lip waist tongue

when I touch myself

the feeling rings

memory lapping

endlessly