Poetry: Violin with Nipple Grafts by J. Tommy White

The significance of inheriting a

stringed instrument for a ribcage

 

and fixing to make a bow of

one’s own sure hand. Everything in

 

the modern manner, which is to say,

ahistorical. Which is to say,

 

we’re still learning about that.

A white forefather, his lutherie craft—

 

what sickness of spirit and lung

trickled down with that sound?

 

In my four-octave voice? In my

word-songs and thoughts like

 

“first person” and “wound strings”

 

(wound strings for stitching,

strings left in a wound)

 

and how do I carry the weight?

Un-marry the men and their

 

marching orders? Even on the

East Coast where they gave me

 

a room, so no one would stare

at me shallow breathing, safety pins

 

closing the post-op vest over my

swelling chest—even on the East

 

Coast with no fire, no smoke,

we smell it always on the way:

 

The so many sinking orchestras,

the snap of necks on the sea.