Poetry
Chaconne
Carol Quinn
after Bach
The centuries are so much rosin
on the strings,
but grief is still warm,
still there. The wind
draws its bow across the roof.
A dirge still recalls
some old exuberance
(this is a dance, after all).
A bow pulls
until its threads can’t bear—
then returns, repeating
its unanswerable question.
Threads have broken free.
When she was
his bride, he told her
that the long, stray hairs he found
were like these threads
snapped in the heat of song.
He still finds them in the house
where something tried to catch her.