As/Is







4.19.2006


The Pianist (for Marie)

and now the piano keys,
sharp teeth, black legged

(I am sure music travels)

stare in a foyer towards
a kitchen where

my grandmother died
there, beside the oven

(was she humming as
she inhaled?)

No judgements
in an obituary
that read:

send flowers
in lieu of money.

She never tolerated
flowers, their silenced,

their funeral-ed perfect
beauty, their lack of hair.

Roses are incapable
of singing, nor
jasmine compose

high notes
in troubled times.

And magnolias
never breath

or play piano
like Marie

as
she divined.