Poem
The Cellist
A poem by Garrett Flatt
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.
