Figure

He snapped his lighter shut, placed it beside the metronome

on his nightstand. We’d just made love and I was

sitting naked on the edge of his bed, watching the stars

appear. He told me my skin was chatoyant

in the window light, like wet fiddleback maple. I asked him

what chatoyant meant. He grinned and explained

growth distortion, how it could pattern the wood fibers

into flames of alternating tones. I told him

that was nice and he said he could take me to the workshop

for a look around. Show me what he was talking

about. I rolled my eyes. It sounded so boring. But then

he bit into my thigh and said he wanted to

fashion me into a beautiful cello. He drove with both hands

on the wheel and told me he thought of everyone

as instruments. He said his father was filled with knots

like a burl and only good for music boxes

but his mother was quilted beneath her surface, like rippled

river water. Then he just stared ahead at the road

and kept quiet the rest of the way. When we got inside

he felt along the wall and flipped a switch

so I could see the three white torsos, each with a headstock

and fretboard attached to the sternum. They were

displayed on hangers like guitars. I covered my mouth

with a shaking hand, backed away and ran

out to the parking lot. He stood at the door and watched me

squeal away in his pickup. The sky clouded over

as I drove to the police station, all the millions of stars

like birds’ eyes. Like the darkness was sawn

off the trunk of a black walnut tree, then sliced into a veneer.