Sing sugar, sing yourself a love song.

There’s a yodel in the radio because it knows someone like you is listening.

No more cigarettes in the sink, the lace you wear to breakfast, and lipsticked
Bloody Mary glasses no longer tight-rope walk
the line between loneliness and art,
a bird on a wire,                                                no more
leaving the bar early because it’s Sunday and you’re too drunk to get laid

Does any of this sound familiar to you?

The time’s come to sing so you don’t
forget your fingers can sneak
themselves between the buttons of a stranger’s clothes and thumb
the teeth of their music box heart.

You can trace their eyes across the room                             across your throat,
across the roundest parts of your body sleeved in light as you
walk across the floor barefoot and half-naked.

It’s almost morning and there’s a rightness in all this you can describe—

Girl, open your throat.

Now that you’re liable, you better sing
like you’re decently churched.

Meg Wade