Tuesday, May 8, 2012

4 a.m.: The Only Note Mozart Never Played, Or There Are No Birds Singing

She fingers the sweaty keys, her
sweat is on the keys, creating (re-creating?)
Fantasy in D minor to
block or mock the noise outside
the window. Her mother quilted
quilts while rocking in her rocking
chair when she was young and
practicing Fantasy in D minor
on the family baby grand piano.
Now, a family is grandly wailing
up the air shaft outside her window:
the mother's wailing is
dancing with her baby son's
wailing as she beats him
for rhythm. The pianist, who
fingered music to her mother's
fingering quilts, cries for the
wailing to stop with feverish
fingers sweating over the keys,
Fantasy in D minor. The
wailing mother fantasizes blackness,
has no fantasy but blackness,
hears no music because she's wailing and
beating her son to the rhythm
of Fantasy in D minor.

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