My multi-talented --
From the roof
Tell me what it’s like to hear your own insecurities in the timbre and the backstep of your voice. Charming or a tone too high. There’s biology connecting one trait to another through the leaves. A network of them below my ribs, in the small chambers we don’t think the voice comes from. Instead a reservoir of air. Unless I’m all in my head, this voice finds every space to ring. You need breath support and tone, but I’ve trained my lungs for years. My head lets some of that down. Maybe there won’t be a performance, but there will be singing of a kind. I grew up in that house, humming. Even when I opened the windows, I never tried to remove the screens.
My investigator --
You like to ask rhetorical questions. I like timelines. I see in them only gaps, how I’m on the other side of the river from the grandfather clock in your head. Sometimes I make my own holes, chipping away at the mortar to achieve a handmade effect. My time is the slow construction of an obelisk with an agitated heartbeat. Yours whiskey and changing orbits. We make both from bricks laid out in the sun all day. This isn’t labor, just dabbling. In one timeline you were alone; in another someone else. I stay quiet among these throats tuning themselves. When I sing I lose my voice. Yelling with a streak of blue. Sometimes we risk it, and perform an exuberant rendition of what’s really a very sad song.
Sam Corfman lives in Pittsburgh, by way of Chicago and Southern California. He counts Pomona College, the University of Pittsburgh, and Antigonick among those who have taught him about poetry, among other subjects. His manuscript, An Opaque Flower Digging, was recently chosen as a finalist for Omnidawn’s Chapbook Contest by Brian Teare.