Forte

At the height of it, mid-practice,
I stepped into the bathtub
holding a metronome to my chest,

blasted cold water.

When you found me, you pulled me out
dripping wet

Simon Simon Simon

Your voice, a trickle of sparks in the leaves.

Simon, you cannot play Mozart with your mouth closed, cannot heal a bruise in the dark.

Your tears when I lost a fight,
your tears when I won—

the cut my shin left on the other man’s face,
bone deep.

From the ring, I searched the audience
for your face—a window
scarred with rain.

Simon, is there no lie you will not believe? No paradise you will not run to?

After the first concussion, I played a song
not even I recognized,

wrapped tape around my wrists, gauze
over my knuckles, spread Vaseline
across my forehead.

I drew the curtains, squeezed blood
from the air.

Simon Simon Simon

Mornings you opened letters with your back
to the window, told me milk spilled on a winter jacket
is a bad omen. The best advice

you ever gave me: a bird
that escaped its cage every night
and returned every morning.

Simon, why do you want so badly to hurt people?

One evening I found you lying on the kitchen floor,
your back thrown out,
and called for my father.

I watched him fold your arms
over your stomach, measure the silence
between your heartbeats.

I said nothing
as he wrapped you in black silk
like a violin.