Walking through the woods, I did not expect to find a piano.The candles are battery-powered. They flick their fake lightat the stars who refuse to see them. The stone angel’scoating has peeled, her face an oil spill. Someone has lefta book inside the piano’s exposed hammers. The exposedhammers, mid-dance, type an invisible poem. I imaginethe sound of the piano is like a snail under a leaf.Begonias spring from the lid, thrusting their hot pinktoward filtered light. When you disappeared for three days,I was trapped in a song whose words I could not learn.Night a borrowed coat. The impending melody of your death,uncanny, inevitable. On the day you were born, I touchedmy two hands to your two cheeks. I must play this piano.I must play, over and over, the only chords…
You're reading a preview of
The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, March/April 2025