for the trumpet 

i played trumpet only for two years
& i was terrible at it. 
i didn't really even like the sound
of trumpets. i prefered a clarinet or an oboe
to anything brass. though, i liked the saxaphone 
but i decided it seemed too heavy--
like a great shiny organ to cradle.
i loved touching the trumpet. 
three buttons at the top. i'd hold the instument 
in my lap just to press each one.
topped with white pearlish circles,
almost soft to the touch. 
traced a finger up the bell 
as if it were a throat. years later 
i would love men like trumpets--
wanting their touch but not their
loudness. their brass mouth pieces 
like funnels into their brass skulls. 
i hated how everyone could hear
when i tried to practice the trumpet.
i would go out into the backyard
but everone in the house
could still hear each note 
each faulter
clear & sharp. there is never enough room
to fuck someone. never enough 
windows. never enough valves & shine.
the trumpet slept in a soft black case.
i removed its mouth before putting it away.
i wrapped myself in sheet music
before falling asleep. i love writing
because no one can hear me.
it is like playing a muted trumpet.
i wonder where my trumpet is.
if you don't play the instument for too long 
its keys get stuck. i remember how guilty i felt
each time i taught my trumpet 
how to move again. some mornings 
i wake up with a trumpet for a mouth.
other nights the trumpet grows from 
a man's throat. he tells me he needs me 
to play him something quiet & beautiful,
which is impossible on the trumpet,
so i sing into the bell. a tongue 
in a hallway. oh trumpet full 
of boys. oh pearl & glint--
i sit the trumpet bell-down
& hide underneath the bell like a tent.
dark & protected. i hum a song 
meant for loudness. i make it 
muffled & hushed.