Strings spin from the friction of the bow
tension of two ends pulled tight
over a thin wooden bridge that bears
suspended cords
resonant as the strum of blood
pulsing inside my inner ear. this crash
of thunder, only I can hear
heavy like the iron doors I have slammed
shut—mom and dad estranged, brothers
not on speaking terms after the system
turned to sabotage:
four minutes thirty-three
the only music they’d accept from me
as I worked to slow the rhythm
of my pulse to a muted hum
far too close
to the flatline of an EKG.
them or me
it was always
them or me.
