Poem
Clair de Lune
When my sister played Clair de Lune
I’d go into her room and sit on the floor
with my ear to the side of the piano
so close that the sound would fill my mind
with the image of the long, coiled strings
vibrating, glowing golden in the darkened box.
I could hear my sister’s feet dampening
and undampening the pedals, muting the
strings, then letting them ring, resonating,
one note overlaying another and other.
And my ear would pulse, almost hurting
from the sound of the hammers striking steel.
And I would begin to imagine things,
different things each time:
my aunt in a blue flowered house dress
standing in her kitchen presenting me with a jar
of her homemade pickles, her thin white hair
always in tight pin curls.
Or I’d be alone, in a long, softly lit hallway,
the walls covered with wainscoting and
lavender striped wall paper yellowing
near the ceiling. At the far end of the hallway,
a solarium, and beyond that a balcony
glimmering in sunlight.
Or I’d be lying in a field full of small, white flowers
bowing rhythmically in the wind,
and I would know that somewhere,
at some time, I was loved by someone.
And it would be that my sister’s
fingers were pounding deep into
my chest with each chord, each note.
And always, always when she stopped playing,
the last lingering notes and images fading away
I’d ask her to play it one more time.
