Work Text:
is it a safe heaven or a safe haven, a request to
save heaven or a slate haven. barely, i can hear
your cries against the bow of the violin fingerboard
stringing your muscles and flesh into a screeching
reflex as the music swells against the
backdrop. and yes, it bloats, it churns,
the cymbals clash against each other
to produce a crunch that prefers metal
to organic bones. the skin of the drum
growing mildew, growing rot as the horns
whine and wane as your figure reaches the door.
it seems so small and yet, i can hear
the crescendo of music, the swell of
something moving in my body, and
for once, I am as sure as a metronome
that it is not mine.