Sight Reading

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.