The Cello's Wail

Can you show me how to make the cello wail, to produce the guttural plea which is the sorrow of mothers whose children lie in shallow graves and the emptiness of lovers long gone and the crimson of the dirt as the blood dries on the streets in neighborhoods of color here and there and everywhere?

Can you show me how you made my body sing in the night while everyone else slept and the moans of our pleasure were muffled by pillows and bites of flesh and a certain knowledge that we would not and could not last the interminably heated summer and the looming miles which felt insurmountable, your heat  (your fingertips) palpably out of reach?

Can you show me how to lay a sorrowful burden bare, to expose it to the light and leave the ugly parts disinfected while preserving the infinitesimal flecks of gold?

Can you show me how to wander in a wilderness wholly exposed and overcome by wicked gales but driven toward the sound of bow against string, the echoing amongst the trees, a song that turns the wounded and weary traveler in the direction of shelter?

Can you show me how to make the cello wail?