His

I was made to sing

for him in the clouded castle

when the wind was too empty

of rhythm, and woman

His touch stumbled over my strings

His voice rumbled over my songs

I was his

hidden pearl, hatching egg, lightning bug,

in his palm he liked to touch

my notes until every string of me quivered

with him. I shivered to be heard

under the thick skin of his voice

which grumbled through mine,

smothering my do, re, mi, fa with crystal

honey thickness of fee, fi, fo, fum

Until the boy came

with little spider scuttles behind the coffee mug

I screamed, but his hands pressed

the music from my sides and scrabbled me away

from my master, who following, fell, fractured

my maker, my giant,

my man