To be read in the voice of Björk
Imagine the wail a belly constructs—
some dim yell, amped into yodel.
Quick—it comes up in the pipe—
it jostles the throat.
As it erupts, imagine the wail
consumed—a bygone polyploidy,
spiraling back into its author—
cancelled bruit shooting downslope
into the stacks; fading to an eerie
ciceronian babble—to a companionable
music, written on the wet pancreas.
This is the torrent and the absorbent craft.
THIS IS NOT A LEMON
But its representation. An ephemera,
Scoop of one, cool, supine on a plate.
Let's say winter had its way with the lemon.
It pipes up now and then like a sequin
When the spoon catches light, catches
Sugar-and lemon ice; shows
The surprisingly green frail face.
This is not lemon: though lemonish,
Its color is wet—yet less so in the melting
Facets—an exasperating lemonlessness—
Disappearing fact. Taste a bite.
If that's lemon inside the ice—
Why is it lime-like in this light?
Probably not all readers know Björk, so to read the poem aloud one might employ whatever sounds the name itself evokes. For the other poem, try Linus Van Pelt.