she has noise in her.
sometimes the hum is
nearly deafening;
shrieks and howls - a
cacophony of utterances -
she can never be sure if they are
requests or demands.
her arms the two plucked
strings of her hearts
harp, hips booming timpani,
frail legs that pound
marches, waltzes, mazurkas, gavottes,
she crashes like
a row of cymbals against the world.
the soft rustling of her eyelashes
against her cheek are
breath over reeds,
the moment before a
terrible wail.
her lips part, wet and slick,
receptive,
a gesture born of years of practice -
close your eyes, open your
mouth, and
wait -
there are moments where
it all gets quiet,
like god has wrapped her tightly
in a heavy blanket,
hushing her, holding her
still,
but always she can hear the players rustling:
the shifting of their seats, the clearing
of their throats,
the delicate fluttering of pages being
adjusted on their aluminum stands,
and always she is poised for the sudden
collective
gasp
that will signal the beginning
of the next song that will play her body like a plastic toy,
the next symphony
that will dance her all apart.
above it all, faint and dim,
there is this constant steady beat,
a febrile and intangible metrenome
that can sense its
own
end. it is the conductor.
only it
knows when to stop.
above the noise in her,
above the shifting of restless players,
she listens for its signal,
and
waits.
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cera's journal