fiddle

violin hands have always been a weakness ever since the first arpeggio on vinyl carpet burned knees and elbows and grateful ears dust jackets making a moat around me tiny and ringlet-headed between the speakers i played symphonies on skin i made caves for each cadence locked in longings dormant for that first flush of feelings later when womanhood wended its way between my legs long ago now but the wanting remains the eyes still drawn to fingers how long are they how wide are the palms are they calloused are they smooth are they strong do they feel as keenly as i do do they press against strings unconsciously while doing other things is every coffee cup really a fret-board in disguise and when will i be touched again by violin hands