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The Cellist

A poem by Garrett Flatt

Published on:
January 9, 2017
Read time:
1 min.
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Four perfect fifths from
the hands hardcarving

tall maple to curvy syrup,
seeping holy into

holes glued gaping, offering
an arrangement of silk and plucked

violets. One high neck
bowed to the floor

of oceans, deep blue and
aboriginal from whence

we sprang, while a wind
of notes unborn

fires this fermata of
soul which holds fickle

and faultless, even in release:
the musk of autumn smelt

forward in June spruce. The sticky
sap streams soursweet

from a full-bodied diminuendo at
the coda—this song, this end for which you were

strung, lulling lately again
to the pianissimo of

six feet below. And always
the violets.

This poem won first place in our first ever poetry competition at Fathom Magazine.

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