Violin in Childhood

The vibration of the string resonates
against my neck –
tightening the band around
that untraceable organ I
strive to avoid feeling. The sound
of it is a sour, broken melody,
and soaks the band in a
lazy acid, not burning,
but irritating the soft skin
just enough to stop my bow.
My muscles tense beneath
my brow, frustrated. The band slackens
in relief. But an unrelenting
fear threatens to resurface –
fear of forming a habit. Laziness.
I pair it with the looming conscience
of the warden, listening from
across the hall,
and I anticipate another familiar
ache as I repeat my last cadenza.