there's a tape recorder in the attic 
i can hear quiet rolling,
the wheels of a flattened vehicle
driving itself into a starburst (pink).
two quick planets beside each other
elbows brushing. 
i'm sure it's up there even though 
i haven't been able to find it 
between the mounds of stuffed animals
& slanted book shelves. 
an attic is where objects go to listen.
there are people whose voices
have un-spooled & become 
nothing but faint impressions 
in the sky, a colony of clouds humming 
with approximations. 
an airplane writes my name up there
& i wish it wouldn't be so flirtatious.
a hum of a gnat
kisses the outside of my ear. 
an article today says they might 
have found Frida Kahlo's voice 
in a trunk 
hidden in someone's basement.
the article didn't say what 
the voice said. 
did she talk about colors?
about art? or did she say something 
mundane like noting the way pieces
of cloud crumble apart & we call it rain. 
the taste of melting caramel.
a few words on hail.
i always imagined her 
with the voice of my first art teacher,
rough like a rose dipped in sand.
the tape recorder is reeling us in
a hook in each tongue.
it wants to write a story
remembering only the words it likes
starting with
okra, McIntosh, help, steam, 
recycling, patience, stop.
its knitting them. one long ribbon 
of our sound. i am careful though
about what i say even if everyone else isn't.
i keep my favorite words under my tongue.
sweet soft pearls.
i wonder if Frida Kahlo did too
if she knew there was a recorder 
walking beneath the walls of every house
& she wrote all the words she loved
into paintings. an image is a word
without the root beer.
i tell myself i should paint.
i have a set of cheap brushes in my closet.
the colors in their paint jars 
burst into petals. i tell the colors
to be still so the recorder doesn't 
catch onto us.
i want to paint something
that means my name. i try feathers
& a half-dead hydrangea bush.
i try sliced green melons 
& sourdough bread. i try medallions
of butter & i start to talk to myself
start to say all the things 
i didn't want recorded
firework forever forget it
i tear apart the attic. i need to find
the tape but i can't. when i press
my ear to the floor i hear
the necks of flowers turning
harvesting vibrations 
the voice of Frida Kahlo laughing
& dipping a paint brush
in her mouth.