in the middle of the night my mother's old flute puts herself together bone by bone. glint of metal in window-born street light. a your face in the dark. sliver teeth. laugh full of air. i tell the device to go back to sleep & instead she puts herself to my mouth & tells me to blow. i'm thinking of the light under your door. i'm coming home to a slice of glow & no one else is you. one of my forearm bones is a flute. i can feel the keys underskin. the flute is the second most feminine instrument (right after the violin) & when i play sometimes my dresses arrive one by one at the door. sway & hold sleeves with one another. other nights birds come to watch through the window like a television. it is lonely to be mature in the dead of night with no song to request. what did you ever know about me? i have the sheet music as evidence. i have a folded metal music stand to help the flute make it through. i don't miss you at all anymore but i wish you could see this. the flutes have enough whimsy for all of us. there is no orchestra. the orchestra is an old idea that died with the last frog. my mom used to play flute for the ghost of her dead father until he snapped open like a locket. i don't mind the past. the flute wants to make hallways of every fissure. you are a towel to be folded. i place a flute on your chest. cool metal touch. i'm going to imagine you as an opening to be tongued & played. goodbye melody & marrow. i love you like instruments love their own sound. like a flute can sound exactly like humming. all the dresses crumple & sleep. the flute takes herself apart one by one. slides back into her box. i tenderly press keys beneath my flesh.