Which poems did they love,
Frances Carroll and Consuelo Wise?
They held this same blue volume –
liberated from the library –
days, months, before me, tucked away
in a bulky purse or cluttered drawer at work, dipping
into facts about the moon on the sly, palming
its slender spine, puncturing the world
with new holes, peeking through before
pressing their lips close, yelling
to see who might yell back.
I am in cahoots.
I yell, too, with another’s words,
yell to beat the band,
scrape the voice on my sleeve raw, worn
to a glorious and glowing sheen. I am not alone.