works by william pham, 2005-present

index | poetry | fiction

I love that
She sang at a jazz lounge and every note
walked past strangers, touching shoulders,
cheeks, earlobes and the smalls of backs
for moments counted out on Cartier time.
Her voice was rough and hard like the storming
of the Bastille, bricks made from French blood
poured down their throats like hundred-point wine.
Her voice was soft like the virgin hairs
combed from the belly of a goat, worn
on the backs of wives, daughters, and widows,
all women for whom voice was a crime.
I love that

copyright (c) 2005 by william pham