The Piano Tuner
There is no one who can tune
my mother’s piano; she puts
her good hands on it like the son
she never had. Like a golden-
headed son after all her dark
daughters. There is no one
who can give him his speech
again. It’s off, she says.
It’s over. She can play us out
into the air. She can find us,
from wherever we are in the atmosphere.
Her hands, which save her from the winter,
now, which lift her out
of this house with its dying
and keeping, expand her
above the blank Indiana
nothing — my mother lifting her hands
at the keys and so good,
now, she rolls the music
like yards of fabric, waves
and waves of bantam
cotton. The old man who used to come
will not come again. His ears
have gone to war;
his body to the crows. Towards
the silence that follows great detonations.
My mother, keeping the lion
of my brother. He sleeping sings.
He, silent, lies. Nobody will come
from Lafayette. The men there
are crooks, the church fellows
have no ear and are not
to touch his long finger-bones, not to
rough the sunless blonde,
the one with all his promises intact,
his blunt big toes beneath,
the twinned strings of his throat.
I’m not sure what she makes
of him. I’m not sure what’s made
in the interlude between life and death.
My grandmother, in her chair.
My mother, her wrist carries
the weight off the key.
my mother’s piano; she puts
her good hands on it like the son
she never had. Like a golden-
headed son after all her dark
daughters. There is no one
who can give him his speech
again. It’s off, she says.
It’s over. She can play us out
into the air. She can find us,
from wherever we are in the atmosphere.
Her hands, which save her from the winter,
now, which lift her out
of this house with its dying
and keeping, expand her
above the blank Indiana
nothing — my mother lifting her hands
at the keys and so good,
now, she rolls the music
like yards of fabric, waves
and waves of bantam
cotton. The old man who used to come
will not come again. His ears
have gone to war;
his body to the crows. Towards
the silence that follows great detonations.
My mother, keeping the lion
of my brother. He sleeping sings.
He, silent, lies. Nobody will come
from Lafayette. The men there
are crooks, the church fellows
have no ear and are not
to touch his long finger-bones, not to
rough the sunless blonde,
the one with all his promises intact,
his blunt big toes beneath,
the twinned strings of his throat.
I’m not sure what she makes
of him. I’m not sure what’s made
in the interlude between life and death.
My grandmother, in her chair.
My mother, her wrist carries
the weight off the key.
Jan / Feb 2024
Hannah Craig lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is the author of This History that Just Happened (Parlor Press, 2017). Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in journals including the Gettysburg Review, Nimrod, Boston Review, and RHINO.
Art: Donna Morello, Collage