String Samsara

The quartet musicians: I marvel at their sync.
Small meetings of eyes crossing chasms of collaboration,
the violent workings of their expressions as they demand notes,
swaying torsos, tautly corded arms, cresting shoulder blades, standing collarbones marathon sweat darkening hairlines. The cellist losing her place
and I see an instant of panic flit across her face before she slips back into rhythm
with the ease of a fish slipping into the Gulf Stream.

Music spiraling upward, continuous, relentless,
forcing me to face a legion of nameless things spiritual carnal artistic
I’d rather not face. That terrible tableau unfolding
contorted red-flushed undulating looking very much the same
whether you are Sufi juju men spinning dance partners of eternity
or getting on your knees, downward-facing dog, doggy-style,
the lotus on the water opening toward dawn,
disgorging secrets of transcendence music unlocks
and my body suddenly vacant

These are not my limbs I feel getting jostled,
lost in the crush of coveting demons and bypassing angels
hurrying toward their own nirvanas. I reach up, desperate to snag my spirit
and tuck it back into place.

This is the battle.
I am Jacob wrestling the man,
so eager to prolong the agony of his touch,
and the music. That wood and catgut
could yield this

I wonder if the creature that donated its entrails’ soul
was freed when the first bow was laid across its strings.
I wonder if the creature knew or now knows
that those fragile fibers vibrating are the only thing
that’s keeping me.