Something of late November
   sifting through a window
brings back this prelude—

   two voices blend, I lean
into the keys, draw back
   when the voices part.

How the body remembers—
    Señora V in a floral sundress,
rose talcum hand soft

   on the curve of my spine
imprinting what she knew
   of love and time. How could I know

what those notes would mean
   decades of preludes ahead.

Copyright © 2019 Angela Narciso Torres. This poem was originally published in Quarterly West. Used with permission of the author.