Kyce Bello
The winter the oil
dipped in the barrels and the desert was gridded
for drills and all the new wars began
was like every other except we learned
to sing harmonies as the children slept
and now and then rain clattered the roof.
He found the notes we needed—
I held the melody lightly between my lips, lightly
as they say to do with questions
and other things that waver in our hands.
That was the year we waited for the river to fill its dry bed.
It came in a black rush
until we staunched it with thirst,
and on nights we didn't take down our instruments
I wrote a book of letters. Each one began
Dear Future Child.
I feel you flutter, unborn, from the apple boughs out back,
hear your voice, that third note,
in its long echo backward.
In the distance between us, invasive roses
make the back passage impassable—
Bars of small leaf and barb.
The letters always end with a bouquet of purple asters that wilt
before I can weave them into crowns.
I drive to the market for more flowers
wishing that driving was already banned
and remember that at night when we sing,
the moment our voices separate is the moment they become beautiful.