Aida Schneider   © 2011 All Rights Reserved


This is what I know of bodies:
There are times when hillsides appear,
green contours of lover’s skin, resting
on one hip, and the other hip the crest.

The body of violins is much the same,
singing of the same, melancholy music.
When I lie down next to her, I hear
the faint turning of a music box. It plays

the song of Fifth Avenue, filtered through
our neighbor’s stereo. As a child, we
had one scenic view, as far as I knew
and by luck it was our own back porch;

in that distance of childish horizon,
we looked out on a field, where Friday
nights there would be a formation of bodies,
hurtling above the rash brass sounds

of instruments, clashing in time. Just beyond,
there were the long perpendiculars
of Allegheny Steel. Its cold rolled stainless,
sheet and strip, pounded quietly in the hillside.


Thom Dawkins
Copyright © 2011  

Thom Dawkins is an MFA candidate at Chatham University and a graduate of Vanderbilt Divinity School. His work as a poet and critic has been published or is forthcoming in Poetry Quarterly, New Orleans Review, Puerto del Sol, and the Cafe Review.

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