Skip to main content

Lady Stradivarius

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.