A nudge, a fatal blow foretold
by the soft note of the harp strings
that sleep beneath your fingers;
these are the birds’ melodies,
dissected and thrown away, into
the woods behind your eyes. As you
sit numbly upon the stage, as you
sit numbly upon this monument,
you play the first note: screeching,
the hawk shot down, and dying
mid-flight. A tear, a tsunami in this
emptiness, falling eternally onto
the hard frame. Reaching fingers;
and the second dystopia unfolds
onto the lines in your palm,
into which your fate is etched, is
engraved with stuttering hands.
And the third brings forth a bead
of sweat, thread into your
forehead; the lights are on
your faults, so don’t worry. It curls
like a dying snake, breaks, and
then you are running, fleeing the
claws of your broken strings, on
this harp before you. Finally you
are on the last one, and you gaze
at it, before there is only the inky
blood of the scales, and the victim
falls to the ground loudly. You stand
as the harp beats itself to death,
and trip as you bow.
I am the only one clapping.
