Playing the bones

The beats of my hands
on my dog’s rib cage
echo in her chest cavity
as if she is an instrument—

a djembe covered
with stretched goat hide;
the rosined horse hair
on cello strings;
this old man, he played nine
he played knick-knack
on my spine;

Orpheus’ metaphor
for Eurydice’s hair;
the shofar my father
played in the woods—

and realizing that instruments
are often dead things made alive
by music, my hands stop
and her tail beats the floor