I have no great fluency, but I love the cloud-sounds the chords make when I push the una corda pedal, the strange power of the black keys, every note, a little person with a head—empty or full. I love the confidence of the right hand and the shady misgivings of the left, the practice pieces I’ve tried, for years, to master. This time, I’m also lying in my unwashed bed, listening to Sister attempt “Für Elise” for the twentieth time. With every discordant note, my mother knocks her off the bench— The smack, the fall, the cry, then a faulty “Für Elise.” On and on. This is how she taught us to ride bikes, wash dishes, weed the endless lawn. It’s how she drilled spelling, forced hotel corners. It’s how I learned to look in the mirror, my ugliness working her up for the next gut-punch, the next backhand to the head. It’s a miracle I love piano, love to sing, love how it lifts me, most of the time, from my dark churn of thoughts. I wait till no one’s home in case I break when I get it wrong, or even when I get it right. There it is again, the same blunt fist, the same ritual of excoriation, the same aching crescendos and adagios in every imperfect song I won't stop playing.
Dion O'Reilly is the author of Sadness of the Apex Predator, Ghost Dogs, and Limerence, a finalist for the John Pierce Chapbook Competition, forthcoming from Floating Bridge Press. Her work appears in The Sun, Rattle, The Slowdown, Cincinnati Review, Alaska Quarterly, and elsewhere. She is a podcaster at The Hive Poetry Collective, leads poetry workshops, and is a reader for Catamaran. She splits her time between a ranch in California and a residence in Bellingham.
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Heart wrenching. Love how the poem suddenly swooped down, stunning me, so I completely empathized with the speaker. Beautifully done.
Lovely and wrenching all at once, like so many of Dion O'Reilly's poems. She is one of the most astonishing poets writing today, and I love to see her here in glorious SWWIM!