The Violin

Her name escapes me now,
My mouth cannot make the shape of the consonants
And vowels in this noun.
They cannot meet the edges of my lips.

Like an upside-down mop,
So tall, with a wad of thickness coming down
It was show-and-tell
A second grade’s most prized day
She said she had something neat to show and not tell

We sat in neat military rows
In such straight lines,
We never left the boundaries
Of four square tiles on the floor

The violin,
Cherry red, wood, and maybe half sized
I had never seen a violin up close before
A,B,C, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
I didn’t know which she played,
They have the same tune.

It was all out of tune,
One and a half pitch too high
An E, flat, a C, too sharp no doubt
But I didn’t care

Oh violin, oh violin
Where do I begin?
I want you so bad, oh so bad!
This may be a sin!
Grade five,
I got a violin.

I remember her now,
Memory plays games with the mind
Chantel Wittside.