Mia You

Musette in D major
First Lessons in Bach

There was wood, bone,
an indecipherable and ordered script,
an air I know now as age . . .

We  stop  for  a moment to survey the land,   then  I  take  your  hand,
wrap it to mine with blue tape,  no,  you’re not allowed to let go,   we
roll down the hill like we did as  children,  crushing   the  yellow  and
white flowers. If we hold this one to your chin, I can see where you’d
like  me  better.   If we hold this one to my feet,  you can know where
our  secrets  are  buried.   We stop for a moment to hear the band,    I
drum my fingers against your cheek,     do you remember that feeling
when you first made music?  I know there was wood,  bone,  script.  I
remember my teacher,  the sheet on the wall,  how she told me to see
the  score   as  skeleton.  Ornamentation  is  a  mode  of  resistance.  I
learned to tie ribbons of lace,  imprint my breasts on velvet,  produce
violet in beds of achroma.  If you put your fingers here,  whisper kyrie
into my shoulder,  I’ll show you what I learned then of freedom.  You
write me an epic,  I write you an alphabet,  each note is played to say,
we exist.  A year later she was dead,  and I started to say,   she was the
first   I’d   ever  known.    Let’s  stop  for  a  moment,     you   need   to
understand,   the plan says I trade dahlias for peonies.   The plan says
he  hums  while  he  plays  your  lullabies.  The  plan  says she achieves
symmetry in refusing to use the unconscious
.   The  plan  says  you  read
out the names on tombstones,   I breathe your letters before sleeping.

                                                            There is a street, which is just a street.

                                                        We stop, and still the bells are tolling.

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