Invisible Strings

By Serena J. Fox

twenty-four pomegranates,
three tympani
and a lute—
the painter’s

storing contours, tints, curls,
percussions, tobacco-
scented light.
the composer’s

hands gesticulate—air, ideas,
arpeggios, muted
aggression,
all conducted

into the vicinity of her own,
alert ears. the painter’s
wishing he’d found
a pomegranate—

left that, instead of sparkling
cider, on her backdoor
step, although,
she’s promised,

several times, tonight, to save it
past the new year, and
to drink it,
only with him.

pomegranate—not a residual
color, nor a texture easily
dislodged, nor the
coldness

of this sinking day. he would,
he plots, find a graceful
stick of bamboo,
give it

pomegranate lips, a lusciousness
it’s not accustomed to,
a stirring in the
loins. “so…”

sounds the composer, liking
her audience, welcoming
him in, but
not quite

letting go the measured
quatrain of control,
“what are you…?”
“i”!—cuts in

the painter—”am eating it, ”
and every bite,
he finished
off himself,

i think of you, but said,
“and every bite
is
—red!”

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