Dark Song

by Amanda A. Matras

Strange song, how you follow me!
Everywhere I go is the bright blaze of your eyes,
your fingers tug at my sinews and I hear the dark music.
When she taught me to sing in Irish you were there,
adding your forlorn coal notes.
A hundred times I have heard the violin
of my heart played upon, have felt the
strings smoothed into music, then
the pizzicato of love's dying frenzies.

I no longer resist, for I
am not the musician but only the instrument
upon which other play their sorrowful song-
upon me they play you, my pitiful tune.

I once believed I would one day leave
this smooth varnished body, that I too
would play music upon the tendons of others,
stringing and sighing over a hundred cellos.
Now I know I will never ascend, even
bodily, from this viola form.
I am accepting of my fate, opening my throat
for you, O dark music.