Cellar Violin

Two-hundred and twenty-five
               at the slaughtering of sheep
for vellum.

Humble ones, it was your body
               that herded
you to the basement
in the monkery. I was never

this sick before. You didn’t

have the ability to conceptualize,
               or the dignity
of a soul.          Strings plucked, later,

bowed; water cascading from a clepsydra.
Father Mark drove you

here: into the humidified
stench of blood, the under-mill.

 

Meg Matich

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2 thoughts on “Cellar Violin

  1. Pingback: Meg Matich | Alyss

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