May

(Envy)





May.



She can play piano like an angel,

like Calliope in her song.



I watch my daughter’s fingers

glide across the piano, trying

to imitate May in erratic vain

until I sigh tiredly and rise from

the piano. I cross the lounge to the



kitchen. I lace my fingers in dough,

and it feels like May’s hair,

ebon, silk. I turn on the oven and

close my eyes, listening to my

daughter’s song, striving to repress

those variable notes, headaches

from too much coffee.  



When I return, the piano is a

black carnation in the jungle.

It’s night, and I press a thick

black key on the piano. The

grasshoppers start to chirp

and I begin to cry. The black 

keys are the strands in May’s hair.



My daughter watches from the stairs.