A girl on the stairs listens to her father Beat up her mother. Doors bang. She comes down in her nightgown. The piano stands there in the dark Like a boy with an orchid. She plays what she can Then she turns the lamp on. Her mother's music is spread out On the floor like brochures. She hears her father Running through the leaves. The last black key She presses stays down, makes no sound Someone putting their tongue where their tooth had been.
The left hand rests on the paper.
The hand has entered the frame just below the elbow.
The other hand is in its service.
The left moves along a current that is not visible
and on a signal likewise inaudible, goes still.
For the hand to respond the ink must be black.
There is no watermark.
One nail is broken well below the quick.
The others filed short.
The hand is drawn to objects.
In another’s it becomes pliant
and readily absorbs the moisture of the other’s.
It retains the memory of the smell of her infant son’s hair.
Everything having been written, the hand has to work hard
to get up in the spaces.
There is no tremor, but the skin is thin and somewhat
The veins stand out.
The hand has begun to gesture toward its ghosthood.
Though at times it becomes almost frisky.
The desk is side-lit.
The hand has options, but has chosen to stay
inside its own pale, thin walls.
It has begun to show signs of its own shoddy construction.
The hand is there to express shouts and whispers,
the afterimage of everything.
From the outside what light leaks through the blind
is blue, blue-grey.
There is a dog.
There is a fan.
The fan is on the dog.