EDITED from a prose piece:
violin
i love violins like i was born inside of one.
all wood, all lacquer,
all strings around my fists,
all pulsating fingertips, you know,
truly, you are unlike any of the bodies i’ve seen falter on the floor boards,
truly, your wrists are a dialog of scar tissue spilling
like poems off a violin’s neck,
you call this the madness vase
where you keep your voice
locked up only to be uncovered by broken choirs,
i thought we are all this beaten down spine together,
but you’ve cut it up
with your moon shaped knuckles,
with your iron lungs,
with your “womyn born womyn only” music festivals,
i am only traveling these words
from one gospel salt mouth to another,
i am only wondering if you still play violin,
should i burn your sheet music
or are you writing a symphony that
spells out every letter of your apology.
