Vol. 7

ROB COOK
Firing Squad Concerto

 

I play each keloid
on a violin shivering inside
the holes Federico arranged.

I perform
in the recursive stadium
of a gunshot,

its empty, infinite seats.

I’m responsible for a criminal gardener’s last moment:

The unnamed floras that grow in the halls of a blindfold
have eliminated the people.

I could not save the terrified music from my violin
that repeated the rooms
of every missed note
where the bodies were buried.

The silences connecting
the Beethoven bars
and the Dvorak malls loitering on a previous world
did not deepen.

I did not take back the summers
between the gunshots E, F, and F#,

lost in the prisoner’s hands
among bones of blood
and nicotine genitalia.

My vibratos—tornado opera hostages—
were not close enough
to worry the violin that wanted

the music threatening us
from those summers to disappear
like the recital of a bullet’s

one thought, one shiver

and then the shiver itself begging—
in a blur of insect
flamenco—

not to die.

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