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.