Soon (2.26)

for Emily

I. Singing

I remember sixteen, and, my sister, you sing it so well:
erratic with sweet notes and wrong words, everything swings,
up and up; you go too high when you can.
In each of the trees you hear a full chorus of songbirds.

Major is on a saxophone in the corner of your bedroom
with a baby blue vibrato, purring, it’s so cool.
You act reckless as me on these rare afternoons,
leaning back on your heals into the bliss

with an easy smile. You close your eyes.

One low breath from a cello – oh
and it abandons you. Your head fills
with dissolving time signatures.
The dark wings lift, scatter, and rip up the blue line of horizon.
You’re consumed, swinging down, down, and it’s too late
to save yourself; you’ve already forgotten about dawn
and you won’t be reminded. It’s only happened every day
of your young life and anyway, this black is so black
no one could explain navy blue to you.

I know the part where you stand alone in a helpless forest.
The bare branches shake like struck tuning forks,
each with only one terrible note to call after your precious, lost creatures.
The bare branches quiver like a starving hand of sharp fingers
reaching after those fragile, free bodies.

When this is happening
I know about the demure smile you must give,
that chirp of a little copper bell to please everyone
who doesn’t hear the silence
of the trees growing still. You envy the boys
who do not have to suspect the stillness
of being pregnant with flocks of bright paradise birds
about to swarm back into the numb wood
with upsetting brilliance.
You almost envy those who can love
what they love the same way everyday .


II. Minor Child

I know about the minor child you keep hidden
who throws tantrums of kicking fingers
up and down the piano.
She once played one color at a time,
but now she makes such an ugly mix
of the pure white and pure black keys.
It seems as though it should be so simple
to keep them separate. But she plays too fast,
too hard. She stops and starts. She burns.

You try to teach her to make harmonies of the gray
instead clouds. You can’t stand the clouds,
always splitting into enough volts of fire to stop a heart
or settling themselves like a heavy nothing against your ears.
She drives you crazy with her moods.
You sharpen your tears into angry saw blades
and threaten to rip the forest down.
You scream: No more of this,
I want to sleep now.

I’ve watched you for hours
when you curled into a little ball in your bed.
I’ve known what you were doing,
begging her to be silent.
There are others she will die for,
but I hope she will keep on refusing you,
you sing too well.


III. Soon

I hate the sound of shattering,
but I hate the still woods more,
so I go on swinging high. It hurts, and yet,
I think you will also love the color red.
You will have to:
the little things are buried everywhere,
and they will not stop exploding.
Birds will not stop flying,
and peace will be followed by something
too bright or dead still, always.

Intensity is an ugly child, yes.
But you’ll learn, I promise.
She will not stay a girl forever,
ripping up your afternoons
just out of sight behind the dull chime of a little bell.
You will learn how to live with her wild fingers.

Soon, the subtle shifting of the leaves
will read like a sheet music
that the brute world will thank you for.
Soon, we will both become women.