Flute

 

I held your long, silver frame. Grinning big, just ten.

My new teacher showed me how to buff your keys

and nest you in your case, a jewel for me to raise.

I paced living room afternoons, a fool with her gold
and finger aches. I hated our Hot Cross Buns,

seagull songs. Dad even sent me to the garage once.

One day, in our grey warble I heard something sweet—

a little peep of pink. Ode to Joy, our ragged feathers

slipped away for ruby roots, robin songs.

Then winter came, rattling our wings. We shrunk

in snow behind zits, veneer friendships, graffiti

stalls and spit wad walls.  

But we waited. We craved concert halls with mirrors

of color, wings of opal, sapphire and jade, every radiant

shade singing like icicles in a light filled cave.

Finally, spring leaned in to listen. We filled our lungs

with its warm light, shaking the marble from our song.

We stepped on stage—my black dress, your diamond frame.

The baton snaps. Stravinksy’s suite wakes. Crack, sizzle,

we shake our ashes into flame. Firebird wings rise,

and all the mirrors of color fill the stage.

 Original-

Scrawny girl holding your long, silver frame. Big grin,

just ten. My new teacher showed me how to buff your keys

and nest you in your case, a jewel for me to raise.

Living room afternoons I paced, a fool with her gold

for finger aches, arm quakes. I hated our Hot Cross Buns,

seagull songs. Dad even sent me to the garage once.

One day, in the grey warble I heard something sweet-

a little peep of pink. Ode to Joy, our robin songs grew ruby

deep and strong.

Then winter came in zits, veneer friendships, graffiti stalls

and spit wad walls. Wing rattling winter made us shrink

our plumes in marble snow.

We waited, craving concert halls with mirrors of color,

wings of opal, sapphire and jade, every radiant shade

singing like icicles in a light filled cave.

Finally, August in New York. Sweating in my black dress,

holding your diamond frame. Mom waves, and dad flashes

a thumbs up. I faintly smile, my breath clipped.

The baton leaps. Stravinky’s suite wakes. Crack, sizzle,

we shake our ashes into flame. Firebird wings rising,

and all the mirrors of color fill the stage.