Sasha

The men slide their hands over the body of the guitar, making it sing their songs. So the shapely, fretful thing weeps— “gently,” said a man. On her lower back, a woman I knew tattooed the f-holes of a cello, making herself into the photo by Man Ray. Men love their f-holes, and the woman knew it. She made herself instrumental to men who played on her sympathies. She made herself up before going out. She made herself thin as a trembling sympathetic string, starving herself of all food but love too long. Now the body sings its diminuendo in a wooden box, in which the men forgot to cut out any holes, and now I fit my fingers to her memory, make it sing this song. S A S H A