DakhaBrakha

          for Rob  

The cellist from the occupied nation
waits to take the stage 
until after the afterglow of the desert sunset
and someone says, 
“There’s Cassiopeia,”
the first notes breaking up the beer line
and startling a cottontail late to its burrow.
She plays as though the minor key 
is all that is left, hints 
of insurgence in her low C,
in the wild horsehair of her bow, 
an amplified plea to the oscillating crowd,
and I fall in love for a song,
ready to follow her back to Ukraine,
learn the language and join the resistance.

You introduced me to this trick 
of music, back when you set the soundtrack
and we pretended to be fearless,
and I knew when you had a paper due 
because our dorm room was spotless,
long before the black blotch 
on the bronchoscopy, tumors on the move
in your lungs, your brain, 
distorting your jawline, your left shin— 
you said maybe it’s time to try 
psychedelics again—and I only wish 
I could help you procrastinate once more. 
Forgive me for retreating 
to the sorrowful cello,  
this song like a farewell 
and too soon the silence like a surrender—  
“Thank you for coming,”
the cellist says.
“We just want to go home.”

TIM RAPHAEL

Tim Raphael lives in northern New Mexico between the Rio Grande Gorge and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains with his wife, Kate. They try to lure their three grown children home for hikes and farm chores. Tim’s poetry has appeared in various journals and anthologies. He is a graduate of Carleton College.