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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

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