Tanis MacDonald
Farewell Symphony
The pregnant concertmaster, round
as a kettle drum in her velvet dress.
Her violin, a polished cat snugged
beneath her chin. Her bow, a swallow
swooping, and the first long note
slackens our limbs, loosens our spines,
melts the metal of our urban vertebrae.
All of us in good wool suits slump
in our seats. Her curved arm pulls
a moan from the wood, the violin
a hot poultice onto our bee-stung
hands, swollen faces, bruised eyes.
The dark planet of her body spins
us to sleep. She tiptoes to
the wings, careful not to wake
us, her violin held out in both
hands, a divining rod, offering,
her first born, the moon
descending into a pond.
0 Arc 52, Summer 2004
Arc 52, Summer 2004
