You won't see your name here, won't read details about what
we shared. It wasn't you I loved, just your hands. Your right hand
to be exact, and really just the fingertips. The way you
held down fretted notes vibrating strings, sent me
to Elysium. Soft pads teasing tremolos, feather-strumming
adagissamo. I miss interpreted improvisations dolente. I don't
remember your face fermata, simply a single nocturne.
-- Molly McCormack is the Managing Editor of A NARROW FELLOW Journal of Poetry. Her poems have been published in several journals. She is also an accomplished blues and folk musician, performing and teaching both mountain and hammered dulcimer at numerous venues across the country.