con estasi soave

I think I was made for music—

            that, coiled around my bones and

            clenched in my muscles, are

                        melodies

            taut and tense.

I think I was made for music. but

I can’t be sure.

I am silent, static.

until you

cradle me to your shoulder, and

press me to your cheek, and

lift your bow to hover above my veins—taut, tense—

a breath.

then a slippery scrape: like rosined horsehair over bright strings

and

music

quivers through my blood vessels. back again, and

vibrato thrums over my skin; again, and I am

surging, swelling, soaring.

I am static and silent

but you make me sing.

the title: a musical notation; italian for "with gentle ecstasy."