Tribal Music.

Watching PBS, it occurs
To me that I want to be
Yo Yo Ma’s cello.

Hello! Does this mean
That I’m sexually attracted
To Yo Yo Ma? Nah,

He’s cute and thin
Looks great in a tux,
And makes the big bucks,

But I long to be simultaneously
As strong and fragile
As the cello. I want to be

The union of fingertip
And string. I want less
To be a timorous human

And desire more
To become a solid
Wooden thing, warm

To the touch but much
Colder when left
Alone in my case. I need

To flee the mystery
Of mortality and insanity
And become that space

Between the notes.
I no longer want to be the root
Cause of anybody’s pain,

Especially my own.
O, Yo Yo Ma, I hem
And haw, but let’s be clear:

I want to abandon
My sixteen-drum fear
And inhabit the pause

That happens between falling
In love and collapsing
Because of love. I want

To be sane. I want to be
Clean and visionary
Like a windowpane.