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Poetry > A Geography of the Heart

Tempering

Mother Broomstick stands in my head
(lies all lies, she never did) --
Father Straphand stands by my bed:
"Get out and face the music, kid!

Pain swells, filling the room like violins,
music to his ears (so sad, so sad)
hurts him more than me to hear me cry, he says
(music for his ears only).

I wail with eloquence,
practising the scales of my anguish
in diminished mode (Ive
always been musically inclined),

music to his ears only.

@ L.A. Wolanskyj

Published on 01/07/2010

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