Samson at Dalila, Op. 47

I would wonder over it often: the welt 
on my teacher’s throat. My hand cupped 
round the neck of my cello, hollow

I hugged to me. So thin the music
stand, so thin what kept the din of strings 
from the electric weather

of my blood. In profile my teacher’s 
tucked hair, frown, perpetual bruise. 
Horsehair on metal, purr torn from a gate

thrown open—and to what?
Only when she lifted her violin to play 
would I understand the mark—

how close she held the carved thing 
to tear its music out.

Read more from Issue 20.2.