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I was nearly thirteen when I learnt to whistle I pursed my lips. My pink virgin lips.
Still untouched and stained with the juice
Of blackberries and chocolate milk
And I blew so hard. I pursed my lips again in the shape of a
Kiss
I blew again. Gently, A sound escaped me
A wavering breathy ringing, that sounded clear
Like ice. It burnt through the air and seared it.
It quivered. Curved. The sound drifted into notes into melodies
Walking down each bitter morning with ringing music in my head
And hearing that hot white sound burn the air
I wouldn’t stop Tunes became calls
Burning the air black with sin
That child’s music was smothered with velvet and silk I pursed my lips. My redded lips
They were touched
I didn’t whistle. The air grew less cold
I woke to light and silence
My white hot sound didn’t burn the yellow air
But my harsh laughter grew In the heat of the heavy sun and the haze of sleepy crickets. As sweaty bodies
Converged. I heard that sound
The sound of
A child. Pursing her virgin lips.
A woman-child, heard that first note: I run and smear off the lips and the face and the kisses
Standing among the protective trees
I, unready.
Whistling. Kiran Barhey
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