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Less
by Kim Northrop
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Labor Pains
by Joseph Lisowski
If fingers have no memory
of notes played time and again,
what music remains? In spirit,
the body tones become art.
My son’s tunes, played flawlessly
a year ago, halt and stutter,
lapse catatonic on the keyboard
as he struggles to recall.
He hears a beauty he cannot
meet, match, duplicate
but knows as once played –
Angels dropped from heaven,
swirled in the waves
of his precise pitch.
I think of those perfect sounds
reverberating still among moons,
planets, distant galaxies
as I listen to his hopes
and suffering dreams.
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