Her Piano

Her Piano

There are days she polishes the case
to a mirroring tool, yet never sees
her own reflection, only the brilliance
of a walnut face where too many ghosts

have gathered? she admires the frayed bench;
horse hair poking through; an unlikely box of music
rolled away for safekeeping where fingered keys
once pressed with exaltation and graced

the room to a sympathetic vibration
from cross stinging glory. She’s hostage to the fever
where simpatico is addictive, her halleluiah
haven; a place she remembers lost harmonies

that trembled through the harp with pedals
pushed beneath her feet as the weight of her body
shifted into a rhapsody of days gone by
that echoed the night-bird’s song

and swallowed wing-beats like tinseled stars
in a flickering frenzy all the way from heaven
and back. If she shared her innermost secrets,
she’d tell you how she imagines lying naked

on the hammer and strings until the action’s
completely immobilized, hitch pins locked
from the weight of years she can’t forget
88 levers of ivory and wood pounding unforgettably

into beautiful madness like a bridge between
all things near and far, her heart a collectible;
a piece of vintage art.