Playing Chopin in Chisinau

by Adriana Rewald
Somebody thought the rhythm 
in this prelude sounded
like raindrops.
It would make an odd
heartbeat. A-flat 
dripping from one hand
to the other, collecting 
in a ventricle 
some despair, longing,
whatever else such music
invokes on this concrete
and lavender night.
We found each other 
in yet another Cold
War city. You played
and I listened, 
after all these years,
Chopin never went back,
you can tell by his
polonaises. When he died
they cut out his heart,
smuggled it home
in a jar of cognac.
Lucky our world
is now small enough;
we drift in and out
of exile as we please.
We’ve all had a good 
to perfect his technique, 
learned how to carry 
our hearts with us
when we leave.