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Resonant Frequency

The loon pipes air through its throat
and the mineral in me hums like the rim
of a wine glass, a microwave oven.
And like a party crasher on her third merlot
I want in on the conversation, my blood
burning up with bird call and breast bone.
I want to say, this tremor reminds me
of what I am. It’s hardly true. My bones
could be scattered on the opposite shore
and still vibrate to the cry of a loon.
If I ever rattled my own bones,
I never knew.

- Donna Kane