Hannah Lowe

 

 

Silent Night

 

At Christmas, the tree lights rainbowed the keys

as I played the melody of ‘Silent Night’

or ‘Walking in the Air’. No one hurt me

at the piano. The room was formal, full of light,

with a door that no one opened. I could play

a knotty trill or mordent over and over,

until I had it in my fingers, the way

if done enough, the body will remember.

 

Whatever was beyond that door -- our fretful

terrier, a flying mug, a fist hole

in the wall, inside there were sonatas,

Gymnopedies and waltzes, Bach’s Cantatas,

little songs of peace, the promise-always

of a snowman who’d take my hand, and fly me away.

 

 

 

Devorah Baum

Adachioma Ezeano

Rebecca Priestley