Pernambuco, by Linda Reinfeld

To check the density of pernambuco
you drop a bow blank in water

and we watch: will it float?

If yes, it's not good;
if no, it's strong -- you'll use it:

you make the tools,
you rough out the stick.

* * *

How can you hope to achieve
music this way, working

with a mask tied over your nose, your hands
red with the red dust of pernambuco?

The first cuts
abrupt, square --

later, the careful
octagon, a strong

slowly emerging, exact
predecessor of the circle;

the grain of the pernambuco
can ripple like glass, like rain --

or the wood, flawed inside, can break,
whimsical,

and you with nothing left but splinters,
exotic remains -- how many hours spent? --

I can't see it.
Meanwhile

you wash your hands with lemon juice,
you create yourself again.

* * *

The lathe,
many files --

knives!
blades!
planes

The burr on the edge
is not an accidental

irregularity --
I listen: the pernambuco

buzzes as if
contented, is

bow, almost
becomes Bow,

bends in fire,
curves and will not crack,

an instance
of geometrical,

of gradual
perfection.

* * *

Calipers
for the accuracy of measure, the fit

(because the frog must fit
exactly),

and the jeweler's
store of materials -- ebony,

tortoise shell and silver,
solder, the slide

mother-of-pearl,
pearl eyes -- and the sound of pearls,

the rustle of my impatience now
certain, beside you.

* * *

You're up late, planing the stick still,
while I lie dreaming:

ivory at the bow's tip;
japanese water stones;

the frog
(ebony,
a block

rough, black
rectangular)

as it comes alive
carved (the throat

oh most delicately does), an enchantment --

though (in another dream
I sneeze too much)

this wood dust is poison...

* * *

Deliberate
burr on the knife, fine
tune, turn of the wrist --

how much of this is faith?

I, I, ecstatic
in a sizzle of listening, you

shaping the bow, holding
my whole attention.