May
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.
I cross the lounge to the
kitchen. I braid my fingers in dough,
and it feels like May’s hair,
ebony, silk. I turn on the oven and
close my eyes, listening to my
daughter’s song, striving to repress
those variable notes, those
headaches from too much coffee.
When I return, the piano is a
black carnation in the jungle.
It is 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.
