Worse than silence,
the saxophone sounds
wounded, like an old cat
in the corner of a room –
out of tune and out of
sorts – my breath, of course,
out of sync with its notes:
it’s broke but can be fixed;
it’s this I think about
in the days it lays open
on the workshop table,
the technician like surgeon
taking my Martin apart –
reduced to pads and keys
and levers and springs –
things just scattered about –
piece by piece by piece,
until that moment
of re-connection,
when repairs
have been complete
This was a poem inspired by a theme of healing and hurt over at Open Write this morning. I recently had to get my Martin tenor sax repaired, so I used that incident for inspiration here.
Peace (sounds like loss),
Kevin