As Her Instrument

A poem about my relationship with my mother.

Masters manipulate strings,
white fingers wind ‘round her neck.
Strike down the bow and she sings.

Critics undo with a glance
all the true steps she intends.
Breaking her legs makes her dance.

This lay the maestro must keep,
hiding its shrill, high-hung discord.
unlock her throat and she—

 

weeps.

Author's Note

The last stanza is out of rhythm on purpose; it's meant to exaggerate the discord of the line.

Reviews

[Charles D. Moorer]

Nicely done. Why, however, do you feel the need to tell us what you intended. Llet us work for the pleasure you provide us.

[Adela Muresan]

You had a great idea to associate the instrument with yourself. The flow is wonderful and I like the imagery as well.

Nice work.

A.M.

[T.K. Bruhn]

very nice write. i felt it through the poem. very excellent!

[darkgurl]

well said and I felt some pain in this write, well written.