Poem in Which my Sister Goes on Chanting

My sister is fond of chanting tones

minus syllables. She likes vowels, only

no one knows what she means. Her other

sister insists that she means well. I like

evidence. Vowels in and of themselves 

need crisp consonants to fence them into

substance, versus leaving sound subject to

needless ambiguity, requiring

taking the vowels outside on a leash

for a comfort stop and clarity, talk

to neighbors who know only what we share.

Deliberately kept brief, but less so 

than exclusively a, e, i, o, u

sung acapella plus, a case of missing

sturdy fences that support real words.

Words that she might vocalize, if only.