The Memory of Objects
When my daughter plays the piano,
it sounds like a musical hallucination—
clusters of chords beating each other up
sharps and flats battling for supremacy
in this time before piano lessons.
The upright, a found gift from the man
who was once my husband,
stands with its back against the wall.
The wood has lost all luster,
its voice is in need of tuning,
yet when she plays,
I can hear us in her—
her hands are hammers
reinterpreting our chaos
with the faintest hint of sweetness.
I swear she can make someone
else’s sadness her music
as it travels beyond black and white
which makes you feel subdued
by this off-key melody
as if it is the only tune you’ll ever carry again
and somehow you’re supposed to live with it
and somehow you’re supposed to transcend it.
(Not sure if the shift in person toward the end works. Thoughts?