That her voice
is a tumbling fountain
of glass.

That her table manners
are atrocious.

That she dances until
even the dumb
chairs are too dizzy
to sit.

These are
excuses we make
to account for the bare
truth that the body

is an instrument
no one knows
how to play. That

each time I open
my mouth,
a mountain wants
to fall out of it.

That it’s no wonder
we make a mess of things.