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.
Mark Earnest Johnson 