THE FOREDGE REVIEW //

Night after night, the evening

outraces me — sky darkening

 

before I can slide rosin against horsehair

or warm up my fingers for their practiced dance.

 

My body tires of the city’s wiry existence

before I can bring myself to face it.

 

Close up, the violin has such a beastly body—

I have concluded that monsters like this

 

blossom out of refinement, rendering

perfect mouths ready to sing. And me—

 

I never thought my hands could roil

the night with such wintry touch.

 

I never thought hands could be emptied

of more than a bow and wooden body,

 

but that they could be wrung dry of song, too.

Even after the music ends, my hands remain

 

hands. My eyes remain eyes. But my body:

plum-dried, stucco-tongued, searching for water.