Peter Harskamp


The beams, thirsty in their plumb aligned structure,

drink deeply of the improvised sound issuing from the garden

The cello’s notes satiating the kiln dried wood


In an upstairs bedroom a woman moves to the music

unbidden thoughts seeping in slow aching, wandering

the intimate landscape still mapped within her heart


Shaking them loose, she leans precariously out of the window

listening to the ripening tenor notes, admitting she’s

grateful now to be by herself yet questioning…


What am I to do with my internal tenderness?

There is no one here to reach for

listening to the first bird’s song?


This softening moves through her

seeking to be moored in the infinite, not in the observed

third person distance of Wife or Her or She


Bending her head to the low deep notes of the cello

the forest memory of its burnished wood

resonates between her thighs


I’ve reawakened the elasticity of my flesh

by becoming weightless, a quickening again

There is no measure in this


Vulnerable it moves too fluidly to have a name

it spreads out and collects

like dark pools reflecting sky after rain



Painting….Peter Harskamp