She’s here somewhere,
tonight’s special event,
on a darkened red banquette,

when the featured bass guitarist
coaxes her to the stand.
She grabs two mics and sings

“Message in a Bottle,”
or not exactly that.
She’s wooing, mic to mic.

She reverbs, calls back and gathers
the crowding owlish sounds 
and life’s sweet red energies.

The amps blow flutey winds
that quiver inside us 
like sex. Her two voices,

roaming glassy things,
plural, fused, entire, 
meet and kiss and implode.

The words, whatever they are,
say Touch me, Love me, Save me; 
the bottled glory wakes us,                     
and not just us—she sings
to criers who sang before.
Her liquid swells of sound

float echoes that wheel 
through her, through us.
Nobody’s left alone.