You are with me in the McDonald’s this time, and I am still the saddestperson here. Your gazea hard line at the far wall.I can feel it gatherin you like a blood clot,a cyclone—first chill of storm, first gust dragging rain through the street. How quietyou get when I am quiet, how soon your hand …
I would wonder over it often: the welt on my teacher’s throat. My hand cupped round the neck of my cello, hollowI hugged to me. So thin the musicstand, so thin what kept the din of strings from the electric weatherof my blood. In profile my teacher’s tucked hair, frown, perpetual bruise. Horsehair on metal, …