The Violin
Four strings. Four dates.
And somehow I could hear an entire symphony.
Never made it to Hawksworth.
Just a couple drinks down the street, and a nightcap at a dingy dive bar
Ogi playing in the car.
You were impressed that I knew music.
I was impressed that you knew I knew it.
Ye ain't want wahala from this nwanyiocha from the Delta.
To be humbled —
I wonder if that's where it started?
the pleasure of being wrong in front of someone I wanted to be right about.
you, tall and beautiful
to distract me
BCG
wicked-smart to attract me.
gentle
in that I could argue with you without fear
…and just pompous enough to make me want to.
an instrument that requires two hands.
one to hold the notes
the other to draw out what would otherwise remain silent.
And the violin—
such a small thing to make so much noise so close to the heart.
Four strings. Four dates.
Not nearly enough to learn an instrument, let alone another person.
But enough to stumble upon something of a song.
the wolves
we slept close
under zippers and stars
and woke to the sound of wolves all around us
—
we howled along
and were sung back to sleep
the sound of wolves
still echoing all around us
—
in the morning
the river whispered
—
quietly
reminding me
that
fallen trees
and beaver dams
shape the path
and change the flow
—
by what falls
you can see what will stay
and what will go
before florence
i unlace myself from him
then the grief of being touched
by someone that's not you
in places otherwise still branded by us
it creeps thick, like ivy
a heavy haunting
—
tangled and tethered
veins and vines
crawling up carotid arteries
search… ing
for light
for breath
—
up stone walls
and rickety old staircases
through
forgotten
closets
reaching
an empty attic
—
where a closed window’s shutters
cast a painful sliver of light
on an old box labeled 'us'
still up there
from before
returning to therapy after a bit of a break
when the only person
you’ve ever loved
almost takes your life…
it’s quite a lot to reckon with
—
when the weight of finding love again
makes you more nervous
than the grief of living without it…
it’s quite a lot to reckon with
—
when the police department
you reported to
was simultaneously being sued
by the accused
in a sexual assault case
involving your former high school English teacher
and a student
only a few years after he was your teacher…
it’s quite a lot to reckon with
—
when just four years later
the accused is charged again
and again… and again…
it’s quite a lot to reckon with
intimacy after ipv
his
winsome
profile
turns
towards me
with quiet control
**
he steps
away
from a computer
on a desk
in a room
at a hotel
with a green roof
**
and i rise to my knees
at the edge of the bed
eager to greet him
**
draping my arms
around his 6’4” frame
lacing my fingers
at the nape of his neck
**
me and the silk of my dress
***
leaning in —
two souls
and i respond without hesitation
***
tracing the fine cashmere
he wears
damn well
from the
back of his neck
across his shoulders
to his chest
where we
share a breath
**
before kissing me again
in a way that just wins…
**
i melt
***
my hands
map his chest
his neck
his shoulders
**
gently
lightly
back and forth
over and under
**
present again with this man like no other
***
his hand
travels my left side
grazing raw silk
**
breathing still
at the top of my thigh
**
slipping under hem
tracing over garter
**
drifting against me
**
barely lifting the satin and lace.
his voice, low and hungry…
**
“you’ve been waiting for me.”