The Sound of Music

The Sound of Music
Madison Hunt

The hills are not alive. Rather they are
remnants against sunken valleys like blood
following a carried corpse.

With a sound, a child is born. A gurgle,
whisper, crash will signify its death.
No matter how many years are tallied
between the dates, silence is not

She speaks of music and sings
without sound.

Toi, toi, toi.

Velvet falls and sweeps the proscenium
like a downpour in the desert.