GRIEF Poem: Tongue turning to the open road, by Sam Backlund-Clapp

When I was in band in junior high farting around on a trumpet I had no business desecrating like I did, there was a phenomenon among our section called the spit valve, that when your instrument got too gurgly and the brass sounded rotten you pressed down on the spit valve and drained out the mysterious liquid that had been floating around in the battered snaking tubes. We’d spray it on each other in silent hysterics, from the back row of the band, dribble it on the floor and unsuspecting flutists shiny black shoes, but when a nasally voice muffled by an oboe mouthpiece would raise the alarm of the spit valve, help teacher, the trumpets are spitting on everyone again, we, in tandem with our director, gave the winy defense

It’s not spit! It’s condensation!

I don’t know if this is true.

But it was what we argued, along with our director who only sought to keep the poor peace, that the hot breath against sharp smelling metal for forty minutes caused the gathering of condensation droplets on the inside, let out through the spit valve,

It’s not spit, it’s condensation,

I can still feel the cold metal, unrelenting,

I don’t know love from my left hand and you don’t know hate from a hole in the ground.

I’m keeling in front of you, tongue running up and down the side- it’s not spit, it’s condensation,

Your body is so cold.