Friday, March 30, 2012

Alec Ekmekji: On Ravel’s String Quartet

There is a place
Under your skin
Where hides a pizzicato violin.

In your belly
Swims a cello;
I pull your hair and make a bow.

Inside your throat
A viola crawls;
The bow thrashes on palace walls.

 White fingers wait
 Behind taut lips;
 They smell of freshly wetted whips.

The viola coils,
The cello stings,
And I am entangled in the strings
Of your pizzicato violin.

Alec Ekmekji

This poem appears by kind permission of the author.

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