amy, 19, pianist

3/21

Sat, 25 May 2013 00:13:00 -0400

A daughter stood
at the back of the line,
hands clasped as
she shuffled forward.

Each step drew her
closer to a father
who offered a piece of bread
and did not meet her eyes;

they both knew
that it would be
the last thing
he ever gave her.

Not, v. 2

Sun, 21 Apr 2013 21:25:06 -0400

A mother wanders into the back room
and flips through sheet music
still spread across the keyboard.

Her shoulders sag as she recounts
a life so briefly part of hers,
until one day

not.

Do you remember music?

Fri, 19 Apr 2013 00:01:29 -0400

Not that noise when you fling
your hands upon the keys,
stomping at pedals,
straining your voice, such dissonance
that would make a spirit cringe—

but your mother’s songs, crooning love
into your dreams where you rested
before you could even say her name,

your father’s drawl
as he clasped his hand
together over yours,

hymns drifting over
our heads as we walked,
hand in hand, behind the chapel—

4/18

Fri, 19 Apr 2013 00:00:19 -0400

We used to crowd around the piano,
flipping through hymnals, calling out titles.
There, in the dark, we would sing,
straining our voices, raising them still.

So I wasn’t lying!!! Here is my very first published piece...

Wed, 17 Apr 2013 21:01:48 -0400

So I wasn’t lying!!! Here is my very first published piece - also the first thing I’ve ever submitted!

Each night they asked,with folded hands,Would she be kind, and Godly?Would she love him as...

Sat, 30 Mar 2013 23:32:09 -0400

Each night they asked,
with folded hands,
Would she be kind, and Godly?
Would she love him as herself?

Often they added,
Give him wisdom,
give him ways to love
which he could not have known
he had.

But they no longer pray
these prayers.

The student

Sun, 24 Mar 2013 22:30:00 -0400

Outside the chapel, he heard a ringing,
like a bell, over and over, that only swelled
in volume until even the birds fled the trees.

But he couldn’t follow them; the music nagged
at the back of his mind like an old memory
until he climbed up the stairs and peaked

through doors that stretched into the heavens.
They swung shut behind him and he tiptoed
on the floorboards, shaking underneath the

harmonies as they swallowed the room,
and in the center he saw—barely more
than a child, commanding it all, shifting

her feet on pedals and fingers on a keyboard,
squinting at sheet music, pausing to wipe off
her glasses, cringing at the slightest wrong note.

Not

Thu, 14 Mar 2013 23:00:53 -0400

Briefly, a mother wonders—
in between folding Ralph Lauren polos
and yelling at the dog over her shoulder—

about that bottle-blonde with the pug nose,
a tall, skinny stereotype offset
by the barest hint of a stammer,

barely nineteen, but planning to play
the piano on the stage for some man,
some husband probably, to sing.

She laughed at almost everything,
and a Bible always rested in her purse—
quaint, perhaps, but good, at least.

All along, she seemed to know
the temporality of her stay,
smiling but scared.

A mother wanders into the back room
and flips through sheet music
still spread across the keyboard.

Her shoulders sag as she recounts
a life so briefly part of hers,
until one day

not.

White lies

Wed, 13 Mar 2013 22:00:49 -0400

I fell in love on the steps
of the chapel; or at least,

that’s how we told the story
in the months to come,

because everyone wanted
an answer, an explanation,

as if it was the most wonderful
secret in the world and they all

wished to know some part of it,
maybe so they could sit on the

steps themselves in an effort
to have that secret for themselves,

but the bottom of my heart nags at
whispering in the darkest place, “Liar,”

because I did not fall in love
on the steps of the chapel,

or anywhere at all,

and neither did he,
and maybe we thought

that the two lies would
cancel each other out,

no harm done—

if only, if only.

Names for a soul

Tue, 12 Mar 2013 22:01:17 -0400

I am one of few who know
the name of your soul, and
sometimes that tempts me

to scream it into a crowd
until I can’t make another
sound, to toss it out

for the wind to carry away,
for strangers’ hungry ears to
devour as they please

I would tell them the
thousand names for a
thousand memories

that could make them
point and laugh,
or gasp in horror;

would whisper a map
of the bruises in your
hands, your heart;

would reveal every thought
and the spaces between them—

If only, if only
I hadn’t told mine.

3/10

Sun, 10 Mar 2013 23:51:26 -0400

At the sight of your breath
you shiver,
at the sight of your humanity

this cold is more than we can bear.

Those things

Sun, 10 Mar 2013 23:50:06 -0400

Months ago we drove to Jackson,
and back.
He drove me, actually,
in his nice black car,
and we wore sunglasses
and he recorded the music
I played at the church that morning
with his phone
(even though the night before
he heard the same thing
a hundred damn times, in practice).
The drive lasts for six hours,
three there and three back,
and we will drive again next week,
and then I don’t know when,
but I know that it will happen
sometime.
Those drives are so long,
and in all those hours,
three there and three back,
we talk (he listens)
and he never tells me
that I am
stupid
and he never tells me
to shut up
and I always wonder when
I always wonder when
he will tell me
“stop, you need to stop”—
but he just lets me talk
and I am frightened of
what
I will say if no reminds me
of those things

7/7 - "Voices"

Sat, 23 Feb 2013 16:27:00 -0500

The men who taught me
hope were barely any more
than a couple of kids with

organ shoes that thumped
together in bags slung over
their shoulders, always.

They smiled clumsily and
didn’t always meet my
eyes when we spoke,

all of them at times
only whispers in a crowd,
straining to be heard,

yet at a moment’s notice
they shoved the clutter off
a bench in a storage room

and dusted off the keys
so they could sit and
speak for God.

7/6 - Dreams of Mending

Sat, 23 Feb 2013 16:27:00 -0500

Three men step with the grace of air
into an upstairs room, slipping between
the bars of the windows to bend their
backs over a cot with stained sheets
and a shuddering form, arms twisted
over her head, chest unmoving as the night.

They reach in, grasping out the fragments,
inspecting the shrapnel between translucent
fingertips, light shining through and
reflecting off the edges to reveal holes
she herself could not have known of –

bruises, slits, and tears through which
the light leaked, seeping through the
years to leave a vacant shell of tiny gaps,
but which within a wounded spirit leaves
a shredded husk, a murderous abyss.

With hands as firm as a foundation,
eyes as sharp as steel, the men would
scrub each shard with the edges of
their robes, in silence, always, daring
not to speak of what they understand:

Before the night is out, they will bend
their heads over another form just like
this one, worn edges to be bound, and
somewhere a psyche so carefully stitched
together again has begun its unraveling.

But, as a bone, it fuses stronger upon
its healing, each stitch more aware than
ever of its own vitality, and these men
need not fear that they will run out of
thread or that a pricked finger may bleed.

Perhaps in your unraveling, you’d notice
how very lightly they press, the tears
that spring to their eyes upon the sight
of another pile of shards heaped together
in the faintest corner of your heart,

how white their robes stain each heartstring
so cautiously unknotted, with such a strength
that it may burn at first, but with a twinge
that aches forgiveness and continual repair.
These men soon fade and do not wait for thanks,
appearing to our eyes as dreams of mending.

2/23

Sat, 23 Feb 2013 13:02:00 -0500

We never danced,
but not because
you didn’t offer.

And although my
feet still ache to
leave the cold floor

and my hands grasp
at air for something
to hold, I can close

my eyes with the
knowledge of what
still may be.

Do you remember music? Not that racket when you throwyour hands on the keys,wringing your voice out...

Fri, 22 Feb 2013 23:03:21 -0500

Do you remember music?

Not that racket when you throw
your hands on the keys,
wringing your voice out of its shell,
stomping the pedals, cutting your spirit
with chords that cringe with every dissonance—

but your mother’s song, crooning love
into your dreams where you rested
before you could even say her name—
your father’s drawl
as he clasped his hands
together over yours—
hymns drifting over
our heads as we walked,
hand in hand, behind the chapel—

You’re too heavyto carry, thoughyour soul is only air. There’s a nighttimein your chest, wherea sun...

Fri, 22 Feb 2013 23:01:00 -0500

You’re too heavy
to carry, though
your soul is only air.

There’s a nighttime
in your chest, where
a sun set far too soon,
and once a dream
where now a nightmare nests.

I promise I hold
the light of dawn;
you just can’t see it
there.

2/22

Fri, 22 Feb 2013 21:11:00 -0500

I consider the shadows
under your eyes, embedded
like scars, red-rimmed

but you asked me to wipe them
once, and the tears
you wept on my shoulder

didn’t burn half so much as
the ones I watch you swallow
just to get through the day.

12/25

Wed, 26 Dec 2012 00:29:00 -0500

The child lies in bed asleep
and so she cannot know,
beside her head, her father prays
that she might wisely grow.

For health, he asks, and courage too,
through trials she will face,
and hope to know there will be rest
when she has run her race.

With that, he sleeps, and cannot know
that in the quiet peace,
above their heads, a Spirit prays
and never does He cease.

12/24

Tue, 25 Dec 2012 23:18:25 -0500

I knew the light could never fail
When, finally, morning came.
Despite the darkness I had sought,
Christ found me, in my shame.

There in the midst of sin, I’d hid,
The shadow as my shield,
But found myself defenseless then,
My trembling form revealed.

Rays struck my eyes, which I at once
Feared they must blinded be,
Yet realized after that brief pain
That finally they did see.

At first I saw only my wrongs,
Each judgement which I failed,
But then grace overwhelmed the sight
And, like the light, prevailed.