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.