.
Sarah Chang plays violin
and stamps her foot like a flamenco dancer.
White flames lick the hem of her Madame X dress
and the orchestra leans in, warming their hands
to her fire. The heat of her furious bow.
Her smoke. She's rubbed Tchaikovsky free
of his genie bottle. He is ready to grant any wish.
A man seated two rows down begins
to tick and twitch, his finely shaved neck
in a spasm of abandoned control. His wife
turns to him, concerned, wraps her arm
loosely about his shoulders. And you and I?
A man in rapt profile and his wife, a spigot
of weeping, streaming gratitude to this girl
whose playing reveals who I am––lover,
mother and daughter, afraid, alight, awake,
alone. Nothing, again, we'll ever talk about.
I grab your enormous hand and let her violin
sing what I can't say myself. As we drive home
two cars cut and weave through the steady traffic.
Their tail lights careen. We gasp but they
cross untouched and bleed into the future.
You can't hear her anymore? I almost ask
as you touch and touch the brake.
And you switch on the radio.
