A Music Box and Memories
On a cobblestone street,
cracked and ill-repaired,
I rifle antique shops
for a jeweled music box
to cradle my empty locket.
I wish to drop it
in a velvet corner
one tear at a time.
If I find an heirloom
with a bittersweet story,
its own tragic history,
my sorrow may lighten
within the confines of its space.
If I were rich, I would live
curled up
on the satin lining of a music box
coupled with my locket,
and with every tender lift of its lid,
I would rise in graceful dance.
My restless nights shall one day sleep
in rhythmic breath.
My flailing heart shall tether
itself to heaven.
I found a music box today,
but alas, it would not play.
Without the song,
the story dies.
Perhaps, today’s fruitless search
will guide me to my hope, my treasure.
If I were rich, I would live
in a Viennese music box,
a timeless ballerina twirling
for you alone, my love.
At a local pub, I sit alone
in a corner
sipping seltzer and trying to ignore
your husky voice rising
from a half-empty glass.
Festive bubbles burst,
sounding off before
the tap tap tap
of the conductor's baton.
I close my eyes to find you laughing
as you sing and dance in the corners of my mind.
You are the part of me set free.
I am frozen in hushed memories.
I twirl my hair to distract me from all
the darkness I see, fingers determined
to soothe my daydreams.
My spirit has weakened
between
fake smiles and faded time.
I pry thoughts from a swirling head,
quench my angst,
ignore faces of strangers.
It’s easier to whitewash
the world in my despair,
than to see its colors.
I wear my grief like a turtleneck sweater.
I let it keep me warm when
winter lingers to bullet
spring with sleet.
When did I fall into a dark corner?
I tripped on a crack
in the cobblestone today,
skinned my knee, looked up to see
you smiling down at me.
If I were rich, I'd fly to Vienna,
live in a ballet slipper
at Konzerthaus forever.
I hear your voice,
it's smashing glass,
a cacophony of howls,
metal on metal,
a melodic chaos
of heroics and blood.
It fills my corners.
I wonder -
did you scream
in your last moments or
slip beneath the drop cloth
you carefully lay
with less than a thud?
In a hush
of onlookers, do-gooders,
did your eyes widen or fall?
If only
I could live in the corner
of a jeweled music box,
a ballerina dancing for you,
the world might spin in a hush.
If only I were rich,
I would escape.
Written 11/14/15,
revised 3/19/17 for In the Corner Contest
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015
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