Woman and Cello

Skirt hiked up legs ungracefully spread inviting. Between those limbs, chords darken. Do I lean into the cello or her? A deep ewer of sound pours from deft palpating fingers, while her other hand strokes the pulse of a sonorant beast carved from blood and 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 bound to the music in her, by the sweep of her arm, the weeping intensity of her shoulders, the cantabile purse of her parted lips. There is no place to be other than inside the voice but whose voice? My bare skull drums to a spiccato cadence, as her bow taps on the strung spine of a bruised sorrow, one that for a long moment we both share.