You Hated to Practice

After school you spread your music slowly

with the palm of one hand.

In the apartment below I listened

for your harp. I lay on the floor

arms chafed by the rug

studying the ceiling as C major

sang down the wall

and along the runnel of my spine.

I knew you shifted

pedals when you tipped

the soundboard into you like a lover

for Leiberstraum then Scheherazade

I felt light as a scale on steel and gut.

You would have been embarrassed

to see me wait every day: both of us hesitant

with adolescence, before

our loop began to fill with time

in the darkening room.

Our Teacher Says Music is Her Mission

for L.M.

We imitate her bare feet pliant

as dough kneading the floor

rolling toe to heel and back, drums

begin and a voice soars, she slices

the air with her arms, elbows lift

hand to heart. We follow

but miss a beat here and there.

My mouth sucks like a purse

until I remember to breathe then

blood purrs my skin to a powerful glow

Legs stride in circles full tilt--

for an instant I scan the whorls

of sunlight splattered on the wall.

We become Mars and Moon,

orbit Venus who sends us

spinning. Shooting stars follow a funnel

of light through my eyes.

Then the music ends in the air

and we are nothing but pillars,

smoldering plumes suddenly still

In a room that is the color of ice. First Rehearsal of the Opera, "Andrea Chénier"

Contained within an envelope

of white walls, under a ceiling

thirty feet up, safety-pinned red flags

hang on thirty-two shoulders.

They identify us as peasants

among a copious cast of characters:

citizens, lackeys, party guests

and soldiers. Supernumeraries and choristers

who cultivate arias as we pick our way

across a hall overfull.

Difficult as wending

through a thorny overgrown

garden to find our particular

field of matching red-peasant flowers.

The dark eyebrowed French director

nods, the Stage Manager crisps

"Thank you Maestro",

the Conductor’s baton,--- the piano---.

Stage Assistants (as if starting

the Indy Five-hundred) wave "go". ---

Deployed, is the whole fantasy

French Revolution. Baritones,

tenors, basses. Pandemonium

flows onstage. Singing

and jeering we become

agents of guillotine streets soaked

with a deluge of pulse pumping music.

Our flag is red.

Emanuel Ax, Hunger & Taste

The pianist is renown & I was famished

for his feast & the window-glittering

lobby, downtown-- & the tuxes,

& the swish & sway of skirts

spangling forward anticipating arpeggios

scored legato & fortissimo.

My seat in the center section offered a clear view

of the Steinway & its master on stage & the three

black-sheathed females I sat directly behind.

They were chitchatting about over-dieting

& skinny brides until the lights dimmed (not dark)

& music filled the hall like warm air into a balloon.

Then, each wiggly woman polished her reading glasses,

opened her program, crackled & flipped pages like pigeons

flying past my eyes. From the very beginning to the very end

of the Debussy, Rameau & Ravel, manicured nails

flicked the glossy pages page after page. My appetite

sucked shredded melody, my nerves

felt dizzy from holding back to keep myself

from leaning forward & biting off their heads.