“His Music” by Louis Flint Ceci

Music is muscle stretched tight over bone,
This bone and this muscle. He bursts into song,
“Ai, Papi!” he sings, as I drive the theme home,
At once the composer and stuff of his dreams.

This bone and this muscle, he bursts into song
Running the scales from Nirvana to pain,
At once the composer and stuff of his dreams,
Lit by his fire and none of my own.

Running the scales from Nirvana to pain
We rose in our congress, but he came alone.
Lit by his fire and none of my own,
My notes go unnoted, consumed by his flame.

We rose in our congress, but he came alone
So even if I don’t exist, yet he sings.
My notes go unnoted, consumed by his flame,
All he needs is my rhythm. I feed him the beat

So even if I don’t exist, yet he sings.
Music is muscle stretched tight over bone.
All he needs is my rhythm, I feed him the beat.
“Ai, Papi!” he sings as I drive the theme home.

—–

Louis Flint Ceci’s poetry has been published in Colorado North Review and read on the air as part of PRI’s Living on Earth. His short stories have appeared in Diseased Pariah NewsTrikone, and Jonathan, and in the anthologies Queer and Catholic; Gay City Volume 4: At Second Glance; and Saints+Sinners 2017: New Fiction from the Festival. He is the founder of and chief editor at Beautiful Dreamer Press, http://www.beautifuldreamerpress.com.