Taylor Graham

Outside the window, the raven
has found a roadkill doe.

In here, Scarpia’s pursued you out of breath
around the desk until your voice coach whispers
“how can you achieve Arte without your lungs?”
There’s viscera in “Vissi” but they shouldn’t
sound so drained. Stretch and pull back,
the fragile scent of flowers through a grill,
and still the blood’s a rush to spurt past art
and tempo. “Please don’t gush the words,”
she says “they’ll still be waiting if you heave
a measure.” But what will the soldiers do
if you can’t smash yourself off a parapet?

Outside the studio the ravens
number seven.