The only jazz musician for miles is present in this room
She croons and we are in Brooklyn
but it is still not Brooklyn
when she sings close to the Pennsylvania Wilds
The song of my heart,
is it a continuous melody or broken up in pieces
Sometimes there is even
the quiet of leaves,
strewn near hanging flowerpots in a cottage near the Amish
As you walk up a mountain,
there are the trees that might know you
as something other than this body or smile
The woman’s voice melts next to the cellist
we stop to hear the piano solo in a room now nearly full
We stand amidst the trees on the mountain
rushing of water,
barely discernible,
the open mouth of a sky listening
-Anisa Rahim
Anisa Rahim is a writer and public interest lawyer. She has published some of her poetry at OJAL: Open Journal of Arts and Letters and BlazeVOX. See more of her work at anisarahim.com.