WRITTEN BY ESTHER SUN
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.