by Stanley Plumly

by Stanley Plumly
     1
     And then he would lift this finest
     of furniture to his big left shoulder
     and tuck it in and draw the bow
     so carefully as to make the music
     almost visible on the air. And play
     and play until a whole roomful of the sad
     relatives mourned. They knew this was
     drawing of blood， threading and rethreading
     the needle. They saw even in my father's
     face how well he understood the pain
     he put them to——his raw， red cheek
     pressed against the cheek of the wood . . .
     2
     And in one stroke he brings the hammer
     down， like mercy， so that the young bull's
     legs suddenly fly out from under it . . .
     While in the dream he is the good angel
     in Chagall， the great ghost of his body
     like light over the town. The violin
     sustains him. It is pain remembered.
     Either way， I know if I wake up cold，
     and go out into the clear spring night，
     still dark and precise with stars，
     I will feel the wind coming down hard
     like his hand， in fever， on my forehead.