The hard-shell case for a hollow body
takes the shape of the guitar.
The nylon bag for sculling oars
has a quilted lining, zipper, and flare
to accommodate the blades.
Like any good lie, an envelope strives
to conceal sensitive language
folded in thirds inside.
The single time I heard, in Berlin,
a concertmaster draw her bow
across a two-million-dollar violin,
I covered my face with my hands.
In the purity of that timbre
vibrating with overtones
I knew my palms had been
shaped for this purpose;
that the word anger for my anger
fit snugly around its referent
but shame had a liquid interior
that seeped from its characters;
that after its sonata was extracted
the instrument would be put to sleep
in a fire-resistant Kevlar polyhedron,
its silhouette carved into the foam.
Later, during the ovation,
I uncovered my face and saw
in waves of feverish applause
breaking over the hall
that a body bag must be loose
so it can be mass-produced.