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.
