by Tina Hawley
Silver plaited strings pull taut against
Her arching neck of golden wood. Her silhouette
Hums with chiseled grace, proving the master’s dream-drawn plan.
An orange sun setting in her aging complexion,
A ghost of gentility in her fading gloss.
Her faithful bow stands ready to speak,
His hair a thousand lines of gritty white resin
Trailing powdered footprints down his slender scarlet spine,
Melting like snow at a layman’s touch,
Sticking like sap to his fingers.
White presses to silver, skin presses to skin,
Reaching, a note’s caress births an unplumbed ocean.
I hear the waves crashing, rising, calling. I dive into the
Deep, filling my lungs with salted starlight.
In a song I will willingly drown.
