POTO

by Michael Keshigian

_____

Show me a clarinet, teacher,
one from a distant continent’s wood
that has suckled nourishment
from a heated, morning sun
then show me the reed,
the dried, shallow, vibrating stick,
that will tickle sound
through many dark nights
when those with flicking tongues
articulate their passion
between panted breaths.
Show me the silver,
flailing fingers have mined
with a synchronized motion
upon this melodious snake
to awaken the storm
that silently stirs
within those who listen.
Show me the spittle soaked pads
that absorb improvised fragments
from the brain and create a smile
that incite fingers and feet
to dance a beat.
Show me anguish
that crushes the heart
and flows through this black magic wand
as song.