Angela Feathers—

Entranced by a violinist at a Celtic concert two weeks after being raped, and I am reminded that there is beauty in the world

I am the tension in your fiddle
strings, faerie lady. Bleed me.
Run that bow, release
me in horse hair
fraying in your frenzied
dance. Tap those heeled Converse
high tops until my pulse is naught
but staccato pauses
in your dripping sweat,
swearing faceless rhythm
backlit by green pinpoints
of light from behind that black
sheet. Hurtle your blue black hair
over the neck—tangle and terse
and tremulous. Tremble me,
my blood, my being, my
lifting gaze; forget to breathe
so I may emerge in place
of your violent exhales, birthed
in exultation, sister to the sixteenth
notes and swaying fulcrum
in perceptive rest, sister
to the wound copper and coil
and snare, sister to your bit bottom
lip and chipped eye tooth, sister
to you, ancient Morrigan. Twist
that faded floral in pleats, quiver
those floorboards center stage
left, command my veins in your beating
lobes, solitary, soldier on, soliloquy.
Flare your eyes open, Fey, and reel
me in, wheel me through the gap
in your iris, needlepoint-fixed, vast.
Scurry me across your prickled skin,
unwritten time signatures
that promise simplicity, play me,
PLAY ME, out, out, and down.