Don't Bother with the Coda, Maestro, My Lips are
Withdrawn from the Flute!
by Anna McCambridge
You receive my encomium
With the ease of a
Cranium crushed
Beneath the weight
Of a grace note.
And now you release me
Of all obligation
With your distance.
Your silence delivers
The verse of my non-existence
And the chorus of your
Intended neglect.
When you do finally speak,
The mellifluous notes which
Once slid from your mouth
Crack with brassy pain
And go flat.
So put down your baton.
That cacophonous gesture
Has sweetened
No one's ears.
