I have no great fluency, but I love the cloud-sounds
the chords make when I push the una corda pedal,
the strange power of the black keys, every note,
a little person with a head—empty or full. I love
the confidence of the right hand and the shady
misgivings of the left, the practice pieces
I’ve tried, for years, to master. This time, I’m also
lying in my unwashed bed, listening to Sister
attempt “Für Elise” for the twentieth time. With every
discordant note, my mother knocks her off the bench—
The smack, the fall, the cry, then a faulty “Für Elise.”
On and on. This is how she taught us
to ride bikes, wash dishes, weed the endless lawn. It’s how
she drilled spelling, forced hotel corners. It’s how
I learned to look in the mirror, my ugliness working her up
for the next gut-punch, the next backhand to the head. It’s a miracle I love
piano, love to sing, love how it lifts me, most of the time, from my dark
churn of thoughts. I wait till no one’s home in case I break
when I get it wrong, or even when I get it right. There it is
again, the same blunt fist, the same ritual
of excoriation, the same aching crescendos and adagios
in every imperfect song I won't stop playing.
