El Violencello (Vagabond City)


Link to work: https://vagabondcitylit.com/2016/07/01/18-el-violoncello-by-sarah-frances-moran/

18 EL VIOLONCELLO

I touched raw fingers to the strings. Felt how gasping for air after being hooked, feels.

I’m so long out of water.

Somewhere in the background Momma is warning,

Do not touch…

pero, it’s so shiny, so shiny.

The wings thump in my chest. The strings prick and the nopales seem like clouds. Harmless.

Agonal. The hum is deep like a hummingbird sputters to a fly.

Where is the music when my storm comes? Peligro…

Where is my low grade fever symphony? Moctezuma…

How will I ever know what I’m made of? La Huasteca…

When the music kicks up, everything reminds me of

home.


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© 2018 by Sarah Frances Moran