Spring 2010

Table of Contents - Vol. VI, No. 1


Poetry    Fiction    Reviews   

Vivien Jones


Voicing a Viol

My woods are sycamore, laburnum and box.
My strings are sheep gut, plain or barley twist.
On my belly rises my curving bridge
over which my six strings stretch.
My pegs pierce their tapered box like offset arrows.
The bow --
which is apart,
is horse-tail and beech.

My neck nestles hers, my scroll examines her ear.
I fit snugly (as he does) between her legs --
I lie back on her shoulder ( as he does):
In her embrace I am weightless (as he is).
Does she touch him, as she does me,
with infinite tenderness?
Does he sing out too?


© Vivien Jones



Poetry    Fiction    Reviews   

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