Elizabeth Crowell
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Recital
Here’s to five thirty on a Thursday night,the honey light, the open church windows, stained glass tipped out.
Here’s to the wetted hair, deep parts,the empty music stand in front,the solemn black arc of the piano.
Here’s to my son’s only white dress shirt,khakis, the wing-tip shoes he loves,their snaky too-long shoelaces carefully tied.
Here’s everyone’s attempt to fix the lean of the music stand.Here’s to the strange fact no one can,
to my memory of middle school band,all the music stands tilted at each other,like a dark and secret forest.
Here’s to the director, giving instructions,to my son’s tilted head,his feet now tap dancing as he sits.
Here’s to my son having no ideathat kid who goes before himis a frigging prodigy, impossible to follow.
Here’s to how firmly, how truly My son plays his little piece by Haydn,practiced just this week,
to my son slipping into a little tap dancealong with his bow, to his deep reliefat the brevity of performance
compared to the rest of life,to high-fiving the girl who goes next,someone he barely knows,
but who alighted from her car outsideand ran towards him, calling his name,to the way he turned back,
the way Orpheus did, for someone who knew who he was in the strangeness of things.
Here’s to the wetted hair, deep parts,the empty music stand in front,the solemn black arc of the piano.
Here’s to my son’s only white dress shirt,khakis, the wing-tip shoes he loves,their snaky too-long shoelaces carefully tied.
Here’s everyone’s attempt to fix the lean of the music stand.Here’s to the strange fact no one can,
to my memory of middle school band,all the music stands tilted at each other,like a dark and secret forest.
Here’s to the director, giving instructions,to my son’s tilted head,his feet now tap dancing as he sits.
Here’s to my son having no ideathat kid who goes before himis a frigging prodigy, impossible to follow.
Here’s to how firmly, how truly My son plays his little piece by Haydn,practiced just this week,
to my son slipping into a little tap dancealong with his bow, to his deep reliefat the brevity of performance
compared to the rest of life,to high-fiving the girl who goes next,someone he barely knows,
but who alighted from her car outsideand ran towards him, calling his name,to the way he turned back,
the way Orpheus did, for someone who knew who he was in the strangeness of things.
