The Tune He Saw
Woods. A stand, waiting for the bite, the teeth.
Joshua Briggs picks logs from the stack he’s cut,
Sticks them in the black belly, fixing dinner—
Pork, beans and slaw—before the night’s concert.
Tunes shimmy in pieces. He looks out at his lot, his stand of
Woods. Notes the green. That shine.
“Play a tune on a jug; the moon pops out like a cork.
But that’s nothing to playing a saw.”
He puts in his teeth for the slaw. Sweet sap, molasses,
Spreads around hillocks of salt pork into it.
The Moonlight Sonata hangs over his head.
And the light of the saw. “You can use it to cut, too.
That very same instrument.” His parcel of
Woods. Pieces of green; the notation of trunks and
The land, that ground bass over which his
Single strand of tune will soar like an angel.
“Lots of people my age like a tune.
Today it’s all beat but I give them music.”
He begins to practice. The saw bends.
Quavering moonlight fills the room. The saw
Arches and twists between hand and thigh.
He strokes it with his bow, “A cello bow made
From manes of white Argentine horses. That country’s got
Silver in its name.” The saw angles and dips
Like a waterfall between hand and thigh.
The semi-, demi-, hemi-quavers, the crotchets of
Wood are joined as Joshua Briggs
Bends what he saw. The tune rises like the holy ghost.
It will rise, that Moonlight Sonata,
Above the audience at the Grange
Like the host. He will greet them with music.
His white forelock falls over his eyes as he bows, twisting
Silver between hand and thigh.
He describes the tune in the air, sawing it into
Parcels of light. “Angels are women; I know that.”
The room is full of what he can accept.
Copyright Credit: Cynthia Macdonald, “The Tune He Saw” from Alternate Means of Transport. Copyright © 1985 by Cynthia Macdonald. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.
Source: Alternate Means of Transport (Alfred A. Knopf, 1985)