"Practice What You Breach"
I have a date with my thereminist
in the practice room.
His hands are already tuned
but he has no way to score
his ever changing position.
Our conversational boundaries
are not unlike the invisible fence
I have for my dog and I am shocked
by the frequency of my trespasses.
He is asking me not to tell
him my dreams, seems at odds
over polarities that quiver
between us like a song
looking for an instrument
in which to stick itself.
Something like a string,
he can’t sing without reaching
a proper tension; brushes
my consciousness for at least
a hundred strokes till it stands
on end. When he gives me static
about my hair, I swear his fretting
just reminds me of my mother.
© 2008 sue kay
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