Containment Narrative – Clare Harmon

I dressed blackunderwearredbra I worried that the strap wouldbeseen and remembered Ididn’tcareatall fuck theorchestraanditsfuckingdresscode skinnyjeans blackboots and crammedconcertblackballedup I walked to the hall wrinkledclotheswrithed at the thought of performance unpacked the viola to violentclouds of rosin dust slippedpegs and I remembered the timeofyear changeofseasons is such a bitch for string players I shared a stand with a Luciano BrazilianCasanova who smelled of toomanycigarettes greeted me with discoloredsmile he was thirtyeight that year and I oftenwondered about the lasttime he was at the dentist weplayedaconcerto and other pieces Ibarelyrememberoverturesymphony but which ones I couldn’t tell you like I said I really didn’tcareatall applause and ovation brightlights reflected white on mapleplank despitedust no matter how shitty you play you’resupposedtosmile at the end later at the bar I drank ginandtonics one old fashioned met someone new lastcall we walked to the parking lot waxedpoetic on Billie Holiday and Bessie Smith at his apartmenteerilyimmaculate we listened to pressedvinyl Johnny Smith aguitaristlikeDjango I should love him but I can’t listenanymorenotnownottodaymaybenotever

It was
the mo
took
hand
I
freez
blood
no
no
thing
he had
sheet
bed
my
shudde
if
pre
nition
what
co
four in
rning I
his
was
ing low
sugar
dinner
heat
no
to eat
only a
and
spread
body
red as
some
cog
told it was to
me.

I showered immediatelyshed myclothes upon entering my basementapartment everything ached mybreasts achedmyskinached my body ached and I scrubbedlikehell I made a small load of contaminatedclothes pacing shakinginstillTourette’s brought on bydisbelief bytheblackunderwearredbra skinnyjeans wadded cruddycummyconcertblack the rest tainted the apartment a taintedapparitionteeming overflowing my mother’s scarf aprayershawlacarrier I cured it with essentialoilsteatree and tangerine postulated the half-life of cheapcolognesometimearoundnineamIcalledmysister: things like this happen all the time.

Clare Louise Harmon holds a B.A. in Art History from the University of Minnesota. She later pursued graduate studies in music performance under the tutelage of Yuri Gandelsman and Marcie Ray at Michigan State University. As a burgeoning musicological scholar, Clare has been invited to present her research and writing at symposia and conferences in Europe, New Zealand, South America, and throughout the United States. From 2011-2012, Clare taught violin, viola, and chamber music at Drake University. At present, she is working toward completion of an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of New Orleans. Her poems will be published in forthcoming issues of Quaint and PANK Magazines.

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