Violin
When my father kicked my violin
against the stove
there was a crash
and the wood carved
so lovingly cracked
with the force
splintered away from
the whole into silence
I was about 12 years old
then
remembering my father, the war
his anger
the broken neck of the violin
the collapsed bridge
severed sound vibrations
the arc of the instrument’s shoulder
I once held in my hand
and the empty curving space
that was the window to the world
I am thinking of the trajectory of circles
bombs
my waist
a wanting and needing to let go
Teresa Mei Chuc was born in Saigon, Vietnam and immigrated to the U.S. under political asylum with her mother and brother shortly after the Vietnam War. Teresa teaches literature and writing at a public inner-city middle school. She has a bachelors degree in philosophy, professional teaching credentials in primary and secondary education, and a Masters in Fine Arts in Creative Writing (poetry) from Goddard College in Plainfield, Vermont. Her first collection of poetry is RED THREAD (2012).
