Selfie at the Symphony

Lisa Summe

How can a string instrument whistle or something like a whistle? What if my mouth was full of strings like an instrument? You’d hold my neck so gentle like I’m alive and I am. I’m not going to make a metaphor about how you can “play” me or say anything else about how you might touch me if I were an instrument. I love you. Your name is as familiar as the backs of my hands, so I got it tattooed across my knuckles. I set my hand on top of the symphony program and take a picture of my knuckles and send it to you. The people here are old with combed hair and are nothing like you. You are something else, indeed. I’ve never seen a mandolin in real life until today. The way that guy moves his fingers must please some lover of his. A mandolin and a vagina are different. I’m not assuming he sleeps with women, but I sleep with women, which is why I wrote vagina instead of dick. I’m a proud lesbian. I write about sex a lot because I think about sex a lot, not because I’m having a lot of sex, but because I have sex with you and you live far away and I think about having sex with you when I’m not, which is often. In the program I keep seeing the word allegro. I don’t know what an allegro is but I know what Allegra is. I have some problems and one of them is allergies. I look up allegro when I get home. It’s a measure of tempo, a fast one, 120-168 beats per minute. Here is where I bring our hearts into the poem. I have an allegro heart for you. I have a heart tattoo on my pinky knuckle following your name. Here is where I play you something with my instrument mouth, where my heart earns its keep.

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