Tremolo

Dear invisible hand scribing the surface
of this vinyl platter, you usher in a new
soundtrack: buzz of a black-throated warbler,
catbird’s brassy solo. All cool and nonchalant—
but underneath: the faltering notes of what
we want so much to say but can’t. Fluttering
skin, stroked by feathers. If I begged you to stay,
if I begged you to take me away? What then?
But I don’t. In the evenings, the crickets repeat
their two-note arias. Under the trees, fireflies
send stuttering messages across the dark.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← VocaliseInterior Landscape, with Roman Shades and Lovers →

4 Comments


  1. Wonderful, Luisa. So nice to see this appear on the morning of my departure, and know the blog is in capable hands! Hasta luego.

    Reply

  2. If I begged you to stay,/if I begged you to take me away? What then?/But I don’t.

    A TIRED SALON

    It is the dance not the dancer that we enjoy,
    don’t we? Take this tremolo that we sing
    under our breaths—shall we run off?
    Will you take me away? Beg me. Beg me.

    But you won’t. Never did. Or will. Will you?
    There would be no need for that now—
    time has run out on us. The music ends
    when lights also fade in our tired salon.

    Still, the faltering notes of what we want
    to say but can’t—or won’t– -becomes
    the stuttering messages lost with the wind
    and are faint echoes in an empty salon.

    If we can stop the flight of these desires,
    Would we hold on to them and not be scared?

    —Albert B. Casuga
    05-01-11

    Reply

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