Why my mother doesn't write music anymore

            My Private world is rough and clear,                     

ice formations            terrible power           it hovers and glows above my head

what a disappointing head!

never had enough mange for my liking              

   not enough mange for a king

like I was in the past          

    you know    slumped low             on        heavy breathing beast

on

 rained out road    dark eyes can go on for miles                                       

teardrop shaped columns of

steel men  

 marching towards some… 

notorious... 

fate…

…

…

and yet here is my mother’s piano playing…

tender 

some kind of blue light 

that

loosens your spine

makes you slump forward a little 

twitches your mouth in all directions when the bliss notes sway...

sort of a churched up late night sea flavored piano playing...

mosaic light 

you know wwhat I’m talking about??…

  

Anyway

I’m tugging at her sleeve and begging her to stop because the sound hurts me… 

(to this day I'm not sure why)

                           

    

14 years later we are having trouble sleeping

in a dead family home

                      night tongues loose and talking

 telling forbidden things

Like I tell her "You deserved a different son"                      

    And she tells me "I'm so afraid"

            With her talk voice what bends upwards

When she meets strangers

      chuckles a little

           

                 silence 

        

                          And then

                                                           "There's just no more music in my heart" 

                                    I remember

            Tugging at her sleeves… 

 “momma… please don’t play piano anymore... the sound of the chords is a needle in my mouth..."

          

            HER WORDS

"You rescued me

            I was hopeless and on the run

            Out of dances

            Out of chances with everyone

            You’ll never know how your being there

            Healed me then

            Never know how I loved my friend

            I love my friend"

           

             Notes so pure and beautiful that they could still a bullet midflight

(and I recall  brother Mark’s gun to his head)                   

            Notes hopeful enough to try raising the dead

(Brother Peter leaps off of his balcony         It's not like when she was young anymore

terrified for a second                                    Then they played her on small town radio

that he might actually fly                     )       The orchards bent dancing to Gloryland (her radio song) 

Her notes I swear could mend the wings of family tree                         

                                                                     All the townsfolk how they shook their heads                 

                                                                     kicked the summer dirt and smiled

                                                                     “she’s going places.”

            “Just no more music in my heart” she says,

and she doesn’t blame me, she blames the whole of her life, but I’ve connected the dots, and I know I played a part, and sometimes the guilt of it is just enough to make me want to lay down and cry.