The Poet Falls For a Pianist

She’s smart in a Spartan
sort of way: sweeps her wooden floors
barren to keep the poet
from chasing dust bunnies
or following a trail of crumbs
to her bed. Keeps the poet
swooning in wondrous despair.

Her hands flex like hawkwings
over the keyboard, fingers precise
as crystals in a Swiss watch.
When she plays, he sees notes
spread out in the wind, populating
the room with her temporal children,

a wandering tribe
of tonal kin immigrating
to the desert of his consciousness.
Once settled, they call for others
and insist that he feed them all.

So the poet stands at her counter
slicing cucumbers, rinsing black olives,
and steaming thick coins of zucchini
to press like holy wafers between her lips.

Her appetite is a marvel of architecture:
the streamlined cathedral brimming
with light and soul lifting

to the bleb of her eye. Her kiss
reveals the passion of hands,

of breath pulsing her fingers to music.


-Marck L. Beggs

Marck L. Beggs is a professor of English and dean of the graduate school at Henderson State University in Arkadelphia, Arkansas.