You have said you lost an earring.
An abalone teardrop, unnaturally heavy in the palm.
What I know of loss begins
Within a quiet shop, a piano-scale of sorrow.
Gloss of keys. I chose one song from many
using index fingers.
Never love a sister. It lasts
too long. My grandmother on her deathbed,
an old woman, begged that her younger sister,
also an old woman, be cared for.
That long? I remember thinking. I, who count
sisters with impatient fingers. Dread
a familiar vest. Too many
ways to lose.
Have you ever
dismantled a piano? Unpinned
its hinges and lifted out its keys?
The hidden harp is sharp, and tight.
Its taut-drawn wires prick
away with an axe, a sledgehammer,
The dark hair of my sister leaves
my mind. Listen, I was never
I have tried to join things
back together. To undo sorrow
w/ blunt tools.
Here is your earring
and a handful of piano pins.
Here is your torn earlobe.
Here is your handful of hair.