how soft, curving line of your bare shoulders
makes me envision world peace: the crossbow
turned to a stringed instrument; recorder
derived from a tribal blowgun. Harsh bow
of a submarine hammered into arced
orchestra pit for offering Wagner
or Mozart. Who could understand how stark
light on your long neck could make me wonder
of garrotes morphed to diamond necklaces?
What wizard could wizen a hangman’s noose
into lace collar gracing a nun? Trace
your gentle smile and see harsh Atreus
raising his sons as wise men, shunning kings,
forsaking war’s despair for stunning things
like prayer, lyrics, Apollo’s laurel rings.
Roger Armbrust
February 6, 2012
