And When She Sings

And When She Sings
(after Michael Ondaatje)

Her voice
sounds like a spider
figure skating across the lineoleum of a supermarket floor
like a kiwi fruit balancing a checkbook
like the underground susurration of an approaching BART train
just before it arrives,

like an oven opening on a warm pizza,
a scrub jay cashing a check
a botanist falling asleep
an expectant crowd leaning into a breeze

Like a freeway covered in milk
like a parrot on Christmas
like a balloon filling with promises, gently,
a hushed group of school children leaning on a rail to catch a glimpse of humpback whales
like adverbs fresh off the tree
like a cushion returning to form, a dog watching
the evening news...

A bowl of soup
awaiting the sprinkling of salt
in the winter, or coarse black pepper in July

like the sound of ice cream,
  if ice cream made a sound,
as if the melting in your mouth could make you lift your voice
and sing praises (Amen!) to the Lord,
  a bus transfer in a pocket
a Tupperware lid sealed over persimmons.
the sound of an angel crossing a prairie

like winter light falling on rushing water
like shadows riding the current through the Golden Gate
like a zebra plant overflowing the rim of the pot on your dresser

like the smell of warm gingerbread
like a comforting hand on your back

like the sound I heard
  that woke me from my nap
to discover your (ah!)
soft breathing
beside me.