Some
of
the black
keys are worn
to the wood, the white,
particularly those closest
to me, are discolored. The A above middle C
is blue, like a bad tooth. Others
are yellowed, or striped.
I learned to
touch each
of
them,
one
by
one, and
together
each with each, in twos
and threes, in handfuls and armloads.
Infinite combinations of numbers and sounds, thoughts
made physical. Each aural entity had its aura. Some had halos, sundogs, or
just colors; others wind and earth, or water and fire.
Many held flavors: earthy like
carrots or charred beets,
or sweet, like
juicy
ripe
pears.
The
steel
wires that
cried higher
than any voice, were
grouped in threes, and smooth as the spoons
in Grandma's kitchen. The deep ones were wound with copper
and dust; they growled like ancient wolves, each had its own voice. There must, I thought, be notes between
the strings. I could not get to those. I tried, but there were
no keys for them. Always hidden.
I wore diapers,
not knowing
how to
make
song.
But
they
tangled
my fingers
Their wilderness taught
my hands to be mad and gentle,
their forests and deserts of sounds thick with bulging clouds.
Then over the years, I forgot
everything, the way
all knowledge
goes, in
its
time.
