she was four years old.
played only the black keys.
his daughter couldn’t read
so he was her eyes.
the composer told her
to use her ears.
it started out as a conversation
a few questions. trills. intonations.
an impressive display of teeth
coughing up fricatives,
octaves, nachtmusik.
that time it rained
a gap in the roof
turned maple varnish into
cracked alligator skin
and the high C fell silent.
arpeggios outgrew
the wingspan of her hands.
Baby Grand Baldwin
could no longer be tuned.
Hamilton was wheeled away
now stood Yamaha
glinting black, reserved,
no fingerprints.
without the composer
she longs
to do the hammers some justice.
maybe she'll have a talk
with the satin ebony, maybe
she'll learn Schubert
to ring the house
with chords again.
Published in the Sandy River Review fall 2009 issue
© Kate Chianese 2009
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