I’ve been told my hands are like chicken breasts.
It’s why I quit guitar–
I couldn’t stand to think my fingers might callus,
rough beyond recognition.
I don’t know how violinists do it, playing eyes closed in reverie.
Perhaps the instrument has embedded itself into their fingers
so that where there were swirling lines there are grooves,
which, when fit together with the bow and the neck 
play music in bold notes that manhandle 
wavelengths of light and sound.