CELLO
You would not think
the way he carries it in
that he carries a thing:
the way he favors
his left hand (which touches
its strings) as if it were a wing
that touched God; the way
his knees cling to its sides
as if it were love. It is
his cross, to love
a mermaid whose hair
can sing, his cross
to bear, a wooden box,
half hourglass, half
hollowness restraining
resonant air, to know
what is not a woman, not thing
but voice,
and, with the audience
mute as landscapes,
to let it scream.
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