I am infatuated with her vocal cords

When she sings
The concrete cracks
Petunias sprout up from
Every crevice
Truth rings from her diaphragm
In a major key
Tiny birds birth soliloquys
In her songs
Voiceless citizens are given
Honorary degrees
When she decides to belt a chorUS
The dead are provoked to dream

She does not own a Grammy
No one pays her for her melodies
Her only entourage is me
She says she is no Ella Aretha
Sinead or even Siouxie
Thinks she doesn't create
Silver lined notes
but her voice is gold to me
Her punk rock broadway ditties
Rescucitate her listeners unequivocally

She trembles
When she croons
We tremble with her
In her invincible vulnerability
And we are thankful for the gift
Whether she likes (knows) it

Or not