Marla's Right Hand

Marla’s Right Hand
Inspired by Berenice Abbott’s Untitled

            marla once told me
            her hands would remain on the keys                             
            when she died
            but i can’t find them anywhere
            and the piano went silent
            now a phantom
            quiet in a corner
            the bench warmed by her every day
            now lonely and cold
            waiting

            when i was little and scared

and couldn’t sleep

            i would sneak down wooden stairs
            slowly, in socks, no creaking
            and sit on the bottom step
            ear pressed against the wall
            listening to her on the other side

playing debussy in the dark

            i would fall asleep, safe and warm
            in auricular aesthesia

            she couldn’t sleep either, could she?

            now insomnia haunts
            and aches
            no one to play it away
            marla had black and white keys

yellowed, dog-eared pages of sheet music

drowning out sharp pain, angst

hidden inside

fevers, night sweats

screaming joints, bones

blackblue bleeding bruises

            swollen spleen and lymph nodes

            she couldn’t eat
            or sleep

or hope

she played chopin, liszt

philip glass, shostakovich

            polishing the maple
            brahms, ravel

tchaikovsky

            with lemon essence oil

that made her heart leap up

but didn’t save her

xrays and radiation failed too

having to go to school without her

walking by with heavy bookbag

heavy heart

            i imagine her sitting there
            gracefully somehow turning pages

with just friction

between paper and fingers of left hand

while the right hand played alone

            i imagine what she promised was true

and walking by the field of gravestones

            i imagine that hers isn't there

because the loneliness of her being gone

is rachmaninoff

unbearable