Mark LaMonda
An Old Man Plays the Violin and the Word Became Flesh
Apples ripen with every sweep of his bow.
Crows abandon their corn and
tear into the trees,
their beaks covered in apple sauce.
Beautiful women in fast flowing skirts
talk to strange men while
soldiers remember their enemies' names.
The words drop from the old man's violin
faster than the audience can sweep them up,
they slip through the fissures on the stage
and ease into the pores of those leaning forward —
Their dumb expression turning into the flesh of understanding.
Bio
Born in Worcester, Massachusetts, Mark LaMonda is an artist and writer who currently lives in Santa Clarita California. His work has appeared in Tough Poets Review, SoFloPoJo, Autumn Sky, January House and is forthcoming in Shadow and Sax, Still Here and Blue Unicorn.