Cello

Will my body remember 
that it is a body 
and not a cello, 
pouring its insides out, 
a long curving yell over the ambient noise
somber and deep, meant for tremulous joys,
for the secrets that sleep
can bring rising up in crescendo, a music like swimming
from one ocean's deep end to the other, a race without winning.
My body is an instrument not easily carried,
meant to be straddled, an organ married
to its player, defined
not by its surface or strings
not by things pulled rigid and tight
but by the dark
unfathomable
infinity
inside.