(Ablative) O To Be Reborn a Cellist!

to My Doppelganger

Even curled inside my cage of flesh,
his fetal fist would grasp a fan of bows
strung with tails of stallions fresh
from Olympus, set to perform, compose.

Each note, a black balloon stuck to a pole,
would tremble, leap up from the page
and soar like wedge-tailed eagles on a roll,
my locomotive love not yet assuaged.

He would arrive equipped with novel tones.
His spruce-and-maple instrument
full of air would echo with the groans
of godlike passion never spent.

He’d learn whole symphonies at but one glance,
and even on his wet-winged natal day
he’d trigger oceans full of whales to dance,
oaks to waltz, rocks sing, mountains sway—