Small fingers smudged the center
of each ivory key, coaxed cacophonies
from the mahogany elephant, its lid
cocked like an ear. Flocks of notes burst
loose, careened around the picket- fence grin,
pedal bled through glissandi that rubbed thumbs red.

We'd arrive on the piano teacher's doorstep,
holding Hanon before us like a shield. The metronome
ticked a march in ordinary time. Sotto-voce melodies
never rose above that sound; plucked nerves quivered.

We'd practice all week for that half-hour, fingers
drumming desk, dresser, table. Cracked keys, soured
songs foretold a tone-deaf future but we rolled
toward it, a chase of arpeggios played double-forte.

When we wanted to start over, the fingerings
had become too complex to unlearn. Such a shame
really, when they've brought us so far.  

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Cheryl Snell has new work in Cranky Literary Journal, Riversedge, Minetta Review, VLQ, Banyan Review, miller’s pond and other journals. The author of two chapbooks of poetry, Flower Half Blown (Finishing Line Press, 2002) and Epithalamion (Little Poem Press, 2004), she is a 2003 Pushcart Prize nominee.
E-mail: cherylsnell at hotmail dot com  

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