You are the voice of Stevie Nicks,
and I am Lindsey Buckingham’s
guitar chords strumming Rhiannon
out of the coffin in your ribcage.
Copper wire luring Salem
melodies of that erotic witch
out the lynches in your lungs.
I summon the green wild spirit
of your seventeen-year-old soul,
stirring the blues of her blood
in your diaphragm of sound
wakes soaring out your trachea
and into bright hospital beds—
newborn babe you scream
out light shows—
wicked air.