University of the South
On the day that Sarajevo falls
a gang of music-loving mongrels
scraggy, loosely arranged
and mysteriously ownerless
lolls panting by the junior harpist
who plucks bright sprigs of Vivaldi
under one of the Gothic arches
that knit these slabs of pale sandstone
into a medieval surround.
Cellists, oboists, French horn
players settle themselves at random
among the Civil War oaks.
Against the resolute
machinery of three thousand cicadas
and the deep flank-snufflings
of a dozen grinning mutts
barefoot teens on a dappled lawn
rehearse, drop pages, start again.
Mahler is ragged. A smoother Mozart.
Arpeggios drift past all afternoon.
Such concentration is required
to stay in time. . . . Years ago
I ferried drums, cellos, children
to rehearsals, saved seven dogs
the pound prepared to gas, took in
a foster son thrust up by an earlier war. . . .
What was it the freelance photographer
said in her helmet and flak vest? We
zoomed in on exploded arms and legs,
instant orphans, blownup pets
and god! who cares? In the aftermath
humanitarians airlift damaged babies
to surgeries and skin grafts
in safe countries. Once they’re healed
the doctors pledge to send them back.
Now it is evening. The old city is black.
Here on the Episcopalian plain
that once shunned women, Jews, and colored skin,
an orchestra containing all assembles.
The first violinist, sincerely
sixteen in a Laura Ashley print,
arrives on stage to modest applause.
The Adam’s-apple conductor raises
his baton. Members in vigorous unison
embark on Copland’s “Appalachian Spring.”
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