Echo
reach—how her lady’s index could bar ebony whole. I seem stark mute, but inwardly do prate: she wrote first and then for voicing, drew a breve on figured bass.This was the only way a man’s timbre might enter the room: her hand, a foil against page, and plucking tied gut, knots on the rose. 46 Echo After Antigoni Goni performing Brouwer’s “La Huída de los Amantes por elValle de los Ecos” To turn back at the hill, or wall— all dogs will come home. all sons arrive, their pockets torn. A mirror: Narcissus drinks blue ink from the stream and cannot leave. I love you I love you since to imitate is a pattern learned, call for yes again: a voice is made by doubling. Lungs lift against the chord box, stir its twin folds. Antigoni Goni’s hands butterfly across the fretboard, neck where strings pull like latitude through dark. In her song, the lovers flee— horses’ hooves accelerate down to the valley—and before they are caught, they call out. 47 ...
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