Allegro
Schostakovich's Symphony # 9 glitters large as a city.
Its machinery pistons her internal rhythms,
caroms off buildings, shakes her apart at the heel.

Moderato
She loosens the edge, paper-cut that zigzags
beneath the slow bow, languid release of wrist.
She cannot speak, rooted to a high-backed chair.
Her rhinestone tiara is askew; he lifts her hair
in wings over her head, neck exposed.

Presto
Her fingers split from cold weather,
from practice. He complains she plays mechanically.
She bends into music as a lover bends;
tiny staccato notes scatter like birdseed.
He watches her legs move under her dress, thinks
about her warm mouth. He is preparing
to put her in the red lacquered box, saw her in half.

Largo
Fritz Lang in a white silk suit waves a hankie from the balcony;
a high wire sparks between them, no net.
Music settles like milk in her throat —
here the melody is carried by bassoon and bass,
sleepy as plump, fairy tale children.
She starfishes arms and legs for his knife throwing act.
He aims for the web of her fingers,
between her legs, directly above her head.
She spins in her sequined costume, stiletto heels.
He swooshes his cape; the audience swoons.

Allegretto
If she moves any faster, she will vibrate into nothing.
Music pulls her open, pins her like a prize insect
gleaming and static.