|Oct/Nov 2014 Poetry|
Artwork by Susan Klebanoff
Learning to Play Piano
Mother lifted my wrists with her baton
onto the keyboard.
She was sure that she could teach anything.
Hadn't she taught our beagle
after relentless months to roll over?
She kept repeating, "B-flat..."
My fingers scratched at the keys.
as if we were lost on a road
in the middle of a corn field in Nebraska.
How could we arrive
at Symphony Hall? Or anywhere but an auditorium
filled with folding chairs?
"Start over," she commanded,
the way she had commanded "Fetch!"
from our beagle, a frisbee whirring in the air...
Sprawled on the floor, her former student
gazed up with sad eyes.