Piano Recital

(for Maro Ajemian and John Cage) Her drooping wrist, her arm Move as a swan should move, First singing when death dawns Upon the plumaged flesh. But here no swan wings thresh, No river runs. A woman Strikes hidden strings in love. Now slow-as fronds of palms- Her fingers on the keys. Lifted, her listening arms Ponder the theme afresh, until it seems young flesh Is momentarily transmuted To echo's effigy. No no-the risen hands Pounce on the keys, destroy The hush, rush on, command The blacks, the ivories, in flight now with the keys To grief's unwindowed prison, To the low gate of joy. She leans with sparkling looks Toward the dark wood, her strong Hands work as gleaners should. Then, as who would caress A birdlike wordlessness, She stoops-to drink the meaning At the still brink of song.