Ten Poems by Leonardo Dellarocca

To surrender & cradle at the same time. Even the shape
of the instrument is hers, sleeping beneath her chin
like a small woman. And here, daughters fresh as
violets, v cornuta, so-called violas of the garden.
The eldest, the soprano, opens her mouth making red zeros.
Obbligato. That Degas woman, her lovely pink mouth,
her eyes somewhere else. She imagines herself eating
a plum. That eternal whole note. The skull houses great
streams of air. How the shape of the face makes music.
Because the bones of young girls are hollow when they
close their eyes. They are flying now. The door wide
open. Somewhere a man is smoking cherry tobacco. Plates
thrown across a room by the mistress of Cremona. Agitato.
Because this is music for cellos. And this chorus mad
with Heaven.