It is not to lower the pail
to steal a sloppy drop of water.
It’s not geometry to want.
Not controls to fiddle.
Not to lift.
Not aerodynamics.
Not control tower.
Not diving beneath.
No subterfuge.
Not to cram air into the vial
nor to trace the outer cast.
Not braille.
Not sonic.
Certainly not ergonomic.

But to bend the violin,
to feel through the body its curved harrow.

—

Erin Wilson has contributed poems to West Texas Literary Review, San Pedro River Review, Minola Review, and Split Rock Review, with work forthcoming from The American Journal of Poetry. She lives and writes in a small town in northern Ontario, Canada.

Photo by Johanna Vogt on Unsplash