Music

A composer, he draws lines in my skin,
arranges music for my body. Stretches
a staff across taut tendons,
prepares the striations for sound.
His fingers palpate
wait, search for the places
to press precise notes into muscle:
plotting small circles between bones,
slurring sounds between tissues.

He writes a song in my skin,
an arrangement of notes that sinks in,
resonates deep into once-silent fibres,
releases sound from strained stillness.
He coaxes melody from the ivory
keys of ribs, from the dulcet hollowness
of scapula and hip. Presses neck frets
and strums rhythm across back,
plucks scalenes like harp strings

and brings music back to me