Woman with Piano

They don’t tickle the ivories
the way they used to—
once-nimble fingers typing
the musical alphabet of Bach,
running like new lambs on a hillside
of sixteenth notes, but now like old sheep
becoming mutton, plodding mud-wise
through pastures of Mozart minuets.

I dog-ear the pages of slow movements,
leaving untouched the rest of the sonata,
abandoning allegros, now unplayable.

I close my eyes, hearing harmonies
for the first time, seventh chords
unresolved forever, languishing
in the hammock of largo, lolling sweet
and idle among the sambas of Jobim.

I feel my fingers, slow and sure,
not needing the flash and glitter of Scarlatti,
the gymnastics of Liszt, but reclining
unapologetically under the falling leaves
of Moonlight in Vermont.

The pleasures of old age linger
in every chord, unable to leap
from the tension of ninths to the final triad,
for resolution is not as important as desire.
And listening, always listening.

*

Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, The Pedestal, Journal of Italian Translation and other journals. Her latest book of poetry is EDGES.