Woman and Cello
Skirt hiked up
legs ungracefully spread
inviting.
Between those limbs, chords darken
where pale angels go blind.
A deep ewer of sound
pours from palpating fingers.
While her other hand
strokes the pulse of a
sonorant beast
carved from lava.
Her body croons
wrists cuffed to the music,
closed eyes
bathe naked in dark pools.
A depth climbs to a tree top
yet the music
is still the lowest place on earth.
I am nudged into her
by the sweep of her arm,
the weeping intensity
of her shoulders.
The cantabile purse
of her open lips.
There is no place to be
other than inside
the voice of her cello,
skull drumming
to a spiccato cadence,
as her bow softly taps
on the strung spine
of a bruised sorrow.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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