I play violin outside because I like to feel grass under my feet
like the music I’m making will fall to the ground and plant itself there
the way nature falls silent to hear what Vivaldi thinks of it.
My arm unfolds in the air and it’s like my bow is an extension
of my body – a bone jutting from an open wound and
I become my hands.
I climb up onto a ladder in the bookstore and
my neck extends like a thumb and I think maybe my face
is an unreadable palm because I don’t have lines yet and
I’m terrified a fortuneteller in a smoke-filled tent will tell me
I’ve known nothing.
I write in my room because I like to feel the walls around me
like the stories I’m telling will drop to the carpet and stain it
the color of the day he left without saying goodbye
and I will paint those walls the red of unforgiveness.
I want to shed my limbs and be the kind of hand
that holds a flower and doesn’t crush it to a pulp.
I play violin outside because I think music notes could be fertilizer
and one day when I’m in a coffin in the ground I want my hands
to be the last part of me to decompose.