Empty

. .Who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body? -Virginia Woolf Every month, the reminder of emptiness so that you are tuned to your bodyharp, strung out on the harpsichord of all your nerves & hammered bloody blue as the crushed fingers of the woman pianist beaten by her jealous lover. Who was she? Someone I invented for this poem, someone I imagined. . . Never mind, she is me, you- tied to that bodybeat, fainting on the rack of blood, moving to the metronome- empty, empty, empty. No use. The blood is thicker than the roots of trees, more persistent than my poetry, more baroque than her bruised music. It gilds the sky above the Virgin's head. It turns the lilies white. Try to run: the blood still follows you. Swear off children, seek a quiet room to practice your preludes & fugues. Under the piano, the blood accumulates; eventually it floats you both away. Give in. Babies cry & music is your life. Darling, you were born to bleed or rock. & the heart breaks either way.