Piano, an ode to Amanda’s song.
We had written one about each other.
I, as if she were my muse, right or wrong;
She, as if I were her dearest brother,
Only. Hers was fierce, deep, and unfinished
Like she; a melody – with death diminished –
I knew, held, but did not understand. I
Began, with the sound she loved, notes drops like
Cooling rain on summer leaves, heavy, clean.
Strong with all the grace I possessed, fierce in
Love, secretly happy. Then, in the beats
Between my labors, strings!, pliant and sweet,
Amanda’s song accompanying me
Sad and foreign, like teardrops on the keys.