Today's poem is by Jessica Tanck

Samson et Dalila, Op. 47
       

I would wonder over it often: the welt
on my teacher's throat. My hand cupped
round the neck of my cello, hollow

I hugged to me. So thin the music
stand, so thin what kept the din of strings
from the electric weather

of my blood. In profile my teacher's
tucked hair, frown, perpetual bruise.
Horsehair on metal, purr torn from a gate

thrown open—and to what?
Only when she lifted her violin to play
would I understand the mark—

how close she held the carved thing
to tear its music out.

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Copyright © 2023 Jessica Tanck All rights reserved
from The Cincinnati Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission