She Is Aural
but would rather be vertigo.
She is a conversation with a child
in her ear. Cleaning off her vinyl,
also her mother, also she cleans each song
she will no longer hear. Nor she believes in that
carol of the page. Erasing that thick chorus, also
sighing unpleasured, she must unsong.
Compared to her, a traintrack is immortal.
Also a track seems always long, but more Callas.
Also she wants one's distance, the other's
Tonight, before that weird opera of whistles,
those trains, also those tracks have been scoring
her among the mouseweed.
The opera thinks when she caesuras
she must most wastefully resemble mouseweed –
a Gregorian gone dim. It takes more
naturally to her to singsong over
the whistle. Also she must limit sighing.
Also she could then conduct the allegro over
so the train and the tracking may hold her for time.
Boyer lives in central Iowa. Her work
has appeared in or is forthcoming
TYPO, The Denver Quarterly, Exquisite Corpse, Diagram, and other