prehistoric musicologists are thwarted at every turn by the fact that it's so easyto make music without leaving a trace, BY STEVE MUESKE AND BILL NEUMIRE

You ask for a song. Out back, rain fills a firebowl.
We know bird-bone flutes were all that survived

the first rapture: a way to whistle down the sky.
I lay in the dark & watch your lips remember

a pop rhythm from the year your father’s heart
refused to stop. The eaves listen. You swear we fall

for a version of the end in which our hips sing
in wind. An old music wants our bones, you say,

& this is the coda. Our bedroom grows clouds.
Your hands sign a rhythm that quiets the storm.

Steve Mueske is an electronic musician and the author of two poetry collections and a chapbook. His poems have appeared recently in The Iowa Review, Cream City Review, The Normal School, The Pinch, Verdad, Jet Fuel Review, Thrush, Verse Daily, and elsewhere.

Bill Neumire's first poetry collection, Estrus, was a semi-finalist for the 42 Miles Press Award, and his second manuscript, The New Crusades, was a finalist for the Barrow Street Prize. It will be published in 2022 by Unsolicited Press. He reviews books of contemporary poetry for Vallum and for Verdad where he also serves as poetry editor.