Kay Saunders Emerging Poet
Honorable Mention

Amy Phimister

The antique appraiser says
that musicians desire
an old violin for its sound.

Wood aged like whiskey
shape holding its voice
deep below the frame.

Are you and I like old violins?

Voices depending on our bones and build,
plucking strings restoring
our memories.

Bodies that hum concertos
fingerboards play with muscle memory
as we shift positions

Our bow moves through patterns
the Luthier struck before
he assembled us.

But no. It seems age has muted us.

Maybe we spent our music in wasted days
our bodies beaten
by extravagance and time.

Yet, our skeletons, our instruments,
are bench made, inner formed,
varnished from an old recipe.

The light and dark
of our tone hand made
like an Amati was.

Then the vibrato of our top and back plates
is still perfect, and our soul post
most certainly, would hold in place.