right hand pointing



  Kyle Hemmings

The Violinist's Complaint

Breaking the silence that tasted like cold Espresso,
he held up his hands, claiming they were ruined.
He confessed how he spent nights tuning his body,
a concerto for one. She imagined now
an original Amati, the ebony fingerboard,
the maple bridge, the rosewood tailpiece.
Never, she thought. He would only play to the
ideal of her and not a body, bereft of clefts.
Fondling a morning cruller, she felt the ennui of days
that would soon follow, lingering inside her
like a piece played adagissimo, felt her own body
as something useless, heavy, hollow.





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