Art For Her Sake
I
a low buzz,
maybe a hum? under
my note.
I hear it—see it.
give up the piece
or keep it,
keep it.
art with children, new, gray.
Blessed are the
music makers.
II
Thoracic curve, eyes down.
weight, not of the world,
but of my own creation, pulls
my head by a string.
bare feet to be
grounded.
“you’re a modern child”
says the master.
“there is a weight to you,”
she says with
an old twinkle
and a smile.
III
pencils, down.
luckily, I write with
pen.
the entire world in a squid’s
heart
my life is not here;
a future
—down the hall.
but there is something.
there.
I am a note, a curve, a stroke.
modern’s child, gift of weight in my throat.
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