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.