My mother would say "yes" without reading the poem, "beauty" without looking at me— meaning—you are beautiful to one who does not see you. Perhaps it was expedient that one person should die. But when she listened, she would say "you are rushing." How we disoriented each other within the measure, she leaning her jazz into the backbeat, her hands swift across the keyboard, her swing sly—lopsided against my classical flute, dotted 8th notes —nearly flawless— I practiced them for hours in foreign countries—cold rooms, fingerless gloves, the dragon fog of my own breath.
2 replies on “Sight Reading”
What an interesting metaphor to use for this relationship. Beautiful!
Gorgeous! Brava, Donna!