The
cello is a thick, heavy syllable
crying against the shoulder of
a thin woman,
a road of auburn hair trailing down her
spine. She understands value.
Prose is never numb,
it spans across nerves
playing emotions with finger
tips of red wood.
You brought Lydia to me
at twenty-five,
she dripped into my sleep
and led me
on a journey.
For you, she was a symptom of
something incurable. She opened my throat,
expanding me and you
suffocated.
The cello smiles with wide fingers,
thick like its soul.
Lydia takes me on a piano ride
in red wood snow where prose
grows and grows and grows.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 