My Mother's Song
C sharp C sharp
The phrase repeats
and every time
instead
my finger hits
C natural.
I know
it's not the note
Chopin wrote.
But if I play
the right one
it cuts into me,
the melody
is tender
and tears me.
My mother listens
to me practice.
She sings the note
to make the music whole.
Her voice, a lily,
opens to me
in the next room.
She knows the phrase.
It catches in
her deepest throat
behind her tongue.
She feels the sadness
of the music,
knows how
I resist it,
but sings for me
C sharp.