Anacrusis Let him touch you that one night you want to cocoon into yourself; take him in miss the marker that measures the month’s progression. The Chorus—888 Your body curves a figure 8, loops outward to enfold another, three times rounds, expands, treble-clefs. In between the first and last note of this song: your womb a tomb crescendo decrescendo silence. Mourn what never could be. Chant that lament for years. Coda Wake up in the hospital, gutted; no more music from that venue all those years spent thinking that you should be this or that— whatever you are not— did you miss the melody?