— on a folded square of black silk —
grenadilla, almost black, with silver keys that have gone the colour of dimes. it lies on a square of silk in a drawer that is otherwise empty. the silk was navy once and is now closer to slate.
the reed is dry and split. there is a small box of others, all dry, all useless. the joints are loose; the cork needs greasing. on the bell, near the rim, a hairline that is not a crack but a memory of the lathe. inside the bore — the dark, narrow, mathematical inside — a thread of dust.
it belonged to a girl who took it to school in a long thin case and brought it home and practised in a bathroom because the tile flattered her tone. she gave it the standard a at the start of every orchestra rehearsal for six years; in silence now, it makes none. when no one is listening it gives back the room's refrigerator hum, half a tone sharp, through the bore.
field-note: a faint smell of beeswax around the keys. the silk has a single thumbprint at one corner.the violin · the recorder · child · a score