The Director

Women's Choir, University of West Georgia

She holds no magic wand, but her hands

pull ribbon from the crest of my head,

they press my third eye until it trembles.


A sculptor, she hollows

my cheeks, drops my jaw,

forms two lips

into the shape of an "O"

until I breathe through

the mouth and gills of a fish.


She is a stone mason, erecting

a cathedral behind my teeth

with mortar poured from my diaphragm.


She puts words in my mouth,

trains my tongue to trip

any trap that might ensnare them.


This is the time I am wholly hers;

I can belong to no other.

Eyes, ears, heart, lungs, my voice a cello,

she draws the bow.


Today's prompt from Poetic Asides: pick a type of person and write a poem about him or her. To help set the scene, you may want to title your poem as who the type of person is. This poem was written for my choral director, Joan Szymko. The photo came from