The Borrowed Voice

               


          From the sensuous beauty of the violin:
the flaring hips, the swelling belly,
the flaming patterns in the wood,
the cells of the wood where live
all the sounds, the songs,
the voices, the vibrations,
the hollow place of air
set free through the F holes,
the set feet of the bridge,
the sound post between maple and spruce,
and the strings pulled
by hair of a Siberian pony's tail,
the Brazilian pernambuco bow,
the tension just enough for strength,
the flex just before the breaking point,
        Comes a voice
        almost human,
more perfect than human.
How can I say goodbye to you?

      When you are a human,
when your vocal cords stiffen,
your high notes crack,
your age declares itself.
My mother had to let it go,
her voice, her self;
The hopeful young soprano,
the joyful virtuosity,
mortal.

   The brass player's brilliance and bravura,
the woodwind's facility,
the dance and ripple of notes,
the song sparrows and finches of instruments;
will all slow, stumble, be silenced.

  Shall I hang on,
stiff and cramped,
pushing through the pain?

  But, each day, some note rings clear,
something still pulls out the song,
the old seduction from
before I can remember.

  The violin remembers,
remembers all its lives,
all the hands, all the bows,
everyone who has borrowed its body,
everyone who set free its voice.