Kimberly Ann Southwick
Kristina from the Orchestra, 4/4
She was the bass player behind
that boy with her same eyes, a french
horn; she grinned the preface to love,
and I worshipped every striped shirt
she wore wrong, every word she spoke,
the distance between each silence.
When she leaned over between songs,
Mr. Yurko sneered and raised his
baton— he saw each unrehearsed
move and used them to blame each and
every botched note and missed entrance.
Still, though, she bent to her brother
when Barber’s Adagio for
Strings and then a Russian trio
only, simply, as thunder, ceased;
she whispered a smile, looked up
as though she had shattered like glass
right there on stage.
Yurko didn’t blink, raise an eye.
For the rest of their performance
my eyes followed
only her fingers on the strings.
I shed all I wanted of her
for her brother, his big fast smile,
and the horn in his lap that turned
color: a blush,
red atonement on tarnished brass.
Kimberly Ann Southwick is the founder and editor in chief of Gigantic Sequins, a literary arts journal. She lives in Philadelphia and teaches grammar and literature. Her poetry has been published by Barrelhouse, Big Lucks, Word Riot, Whole Beast Rag, PANK, decomP and elsewhere. Follow her on twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/kimannjosouth
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