Violin
       

I was mere lint caught in the threading of the pocket
of unhappiness                Which is to say, I couldn't be pulled out
of it
            No clarity in the wood, no hidden
or future violin                Though I am the bed's voice
you are its vocabulary                                The lamp of speech
A lantern swinging the dark's kid-body
            higher, higher, faster, faster—
In the dining room I hear                        cat food hit the plate
At least this part of the day  is "taken care of"—a minute
                          offed as if it were a man
                          we can't have back

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Copyright © 2019 Kristi Maxwell All rights reserved
from Bone Bouquet
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission