Practice

I never heard her play, the ghost
performer who underwrites the name

I'm given at birth: and so
when I step into it, I'm expected

to train for the world as if the only
life was a life of music. I put on

fingerless gloves. It's lonely in the middle
of the platform where the instrument

opens its chest and the hammers begin—
blows release little balloons: chromatic,

ascending into the cold.  I learn to sing
the names of notes, kneeling my fingers

against yellowed keys. But I yearn
for outside light— the colors of coats

burning in winter against ice; rust on the bars
and chains of swings in the park. Slides

on which to practice hurtling down 
then learning to land on your feet.