HER WOODEN KISS
after Evie Shockley
by Hyunjin Cheo
sometimes i miss her, the dreamer
with the wooden kiss on her neck,
relentless, unapologetic, the
calluses on her fingertips
that went tap, tap, tap
against the world. i miss
the way she walked, leaned to the side
so that the violin wouldn't hit
her knee. right, left, right, left,
always beating to two-four
but humming to Sibelius
under her breath. i miss her
long hair, the way she threw it
back over her shoulder and
lifted her chin, the way the
violin rested on her collar
like a bird in a nest;
the albatross that always
finds its way home. all
so natural, hours and hours
a day, the way she sang with
the bow, the way she sang
without words, the way it all
used to bring her joy.
but i am not that dreamer
anymore. she is gone,
long gone, she was gone
since she held her breath
so that she wouldn't scream
while he went in, out, in, out,
always beating to two-four.
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