Record player

I am a turntable,

needle in the groove.

The records of my history

crackle into the air,

motes of dust dancing down memory.

Black vinyl spins me into being –

a hopeless song sung to win a father,

an angry riff ending nowhere.

Tender chords tremble through a remembered house,

ache of forgiveness that came too late.

I am a pile of album covers,

obsolete, stacked in a corner somewhere.

The imprint of a woman gathering poppies on a cardboard sheath,

Schubert’s lament, my mother’s crimson fears.

I set a ring in whirling motion

track a tune to bring back a time

when his love would have made a difference.

The girl merges with the music.