Soundwave Transmission

Sometimes I wish the violin were pitch perfect like the piano. In my head I hold the pitch, but the acoustics of my room make my fingers uncertain.

     purple bow hair fights
     against stiff metallic strings
     screeches like a child.

It reminds me of my mother.

            she opens her mouth
            and a symphony     bursts out
            angry blasts of sound.

My uncle used to say that she was born with menopause.
When I was a small child, fingers chubby with fat, I managed to slink away to the dark corners of my classroom. I was the girl with the silky, soft hair, huddled in the shadows with a stack of books.
Now, more than a quarter of my day is spent in

                   room six-fifteen A,
                   desks wooden, an arranged square
                   here you cannot hide.

There are always people not born to hide, like my friend who easily ascends looming walls.
She is three times my age and she demands attention.

            her hair is rainbow
            dreadlocks cascade down her back
            muscular and lean.

Cannot hide I know I cannot
     Run away, run, run.
            In the lobby,

     the track team grathers
     shirts  off sweat clinging to skin
     shoelaces tugged tight.

Recede, recede. Can you read me?
You read me wrong– I am ready to conquer. I am present: the hideous screeching of my violin.


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