She sleeps with an imaginary violin
tucked beneath her left chin.
In the morning her neck is redwood and
after the camphor oil rub,
she is a eucalypt on fire.
Her hands too, are changing,
Left hand cupped, each finger extended from
The palm and not the joint.
Wire printed fingertips calloused flat, feel nothing,
In the quest to hear everything.
And there’s the way she folds into its timbre
Into the vibration where horsehair meets wire
And there’s the way her bones calcify into bow,
Her arm a branch bent slightly to catch the
Light and beat.
And there’s the way she would like to nestle into its hollow
and after a minim, emerge transformed-
beyond the captured staves, beyond the renaissance rules-
to play reels beside the slowing river,
beneath the buttress roots and shedding bark
to beckon life back from forever death.
Let her practice on a promise to the earth:
Maybe, maybe we can change-
Lift a key, raise an octave.
Let us practice at humanity.
Listen, the rhythm will come!
Intonation scratchy then smooth then scratchy
Then smooth until finally
New muscle memory will form.
Practice more.
Practice better.
Practice in the hollows where sound is born.
Word upon Word 