photo courtesy of Krysia Jopek
No strings, she said.
Hollow instrument of
Seductive curves.
Serpentine cuts,
Dark interior.
It won’t play, she said.
I cannot play it.
Soft thumps
Flat of echo
Mocked us as
We set it down
To gather dust.
Our songs unsung
Tempt glances,
Half-raised hands,
Unattempted reaches
Across silence
Dawn on a doll’s smile,
Poise encased;
Gleams of sun in
Polished wood
Shaped lovingly by
Careworn moments.
Lace in lavender,
Lemon verbena,
Resin sticky with
A hive’s summer.
My violin woman.
My fragile girl.
My keeper of our
Unplayed melody.
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