East West
by Rose Mary Boehm


He had the voice.
There was the accent.
That Hebrew ‘r’, pronounced
in the throat.

When he played it was
for her, she who's bed
he had left only an hour before.
Shaving, the 'monkey suit',
packing his violin
into the old case
his mother had bought
when she made
him go to lessons.

The old violin professor.
The old piano teacher.
The old chess champion.
Those who had escaped.

He stroked her with his
‘r’s, he caressed her with
his smile, he pizzicatoed her
with his fingers, he sat
naked on the bedside table
in a hotel which had seen
better days. A faun playing
Bach’s violin concerto in A minor.
He said he’d play it for her.

Like Cindarella she lost
her shoe. But the prince
never found it in the dark.






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