Goblin Polyphonic

for the times we ignore the price tag, may we forgive ourselves

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He strides up the steps
in his purple velvet coat,
trailing the welcome stink
of burnt sugar
and rosin, 
a gait so light even the oldest boards
hold their breath. 
He closes the distance 
before you clock his game,
pulls a quarter from behind your ear.

A dance? he asks, that quicksilver smile,
that furred thumb stroking the belly
of an instrument you swear you had packed away.
But here it is again, purring into the curve of his neck.
He pauses 
to turn a peg 
and pluck from catgut core
the crystal ring of G.
His nails, you notice, spark
like a highwire act
juggling fire.

“I shouldn’t,” you say, backing away.
Still in pajamas
despite the heat.

Come now, he pouts,
eyes of a pup
(better to see you with),
horsehair flourish drawing a moan from steel.
You feel a pinch
in your toes
that makes no sense,
and catch a glint of glass slippers
gleaming like the feathers of a carousel swan
on your very own feet.

This cannot be right.
Surely they won’t hold,
will spiderweb the instant you make a move
will shred your tendons to ribbons.
But the tempo quickens
across the threshold,
snaking past your refusal to speak
the invitation,
making itself right at home
in the tidy parlor of your pulse 
even though you swear you whispered
no.

They try to warn you,
all the ones he left in his wake.
From behind blackened windows
you thought held empty rooms,
they urge you
to bolt the doors, 
to pull the covers to your chin.

But you will not hear it
through the consonance of strings
as your soles slip
across shattering glass,
towards his wide, honeyed mouth.