Tara Isabel Zambrano
EACH HOUR A SONG
The way you release secrets into me,
we are perceived as lovers,
your words, sound of arguing winds,
my body gone marble, weighted to your bed.
Together, we drink the same days,
each hour a song, whipped like cream.
Our arms, twisted vines tattooed
with names of who've abandoned us.
All night we grow like twins in a womb
surrender our untrustworthy thighs,
fight over laws that differentiate
love from love stories.