1

And then he would lift this finest

of furniture to his big left shoulder

and tuck it in and draw the bow

so carefully as to make the music



almost visible on the air. And play

and play until a whole roomful of the sad

relatives mourned. They knew this was

drawing of blood, threading and rethreading



the needle. They saw even in my father's

face how well he understood the pain

he put them to--his raw, red cheek

pressed against the cheek of the wood . . .

 

2

And in one stroke he brings the hammer

down, like mercy, so that the young bull's

legs suddenly fly out from under it . . .

While in the dream he is the good angel



in Chagall, the great ghost of his body

like light over the town. The violin

sustains him. It is pain remembered.

Either way, I know if I wake up cold,



and go out into the clear spring night,

still dark and precise with stars,

I will feel the wind coming down hard

like his hand, in fever, on my forehead.