Emma-Jane Arkady
Anna Plays Violin
I know they think it is their own,
a culture thing claimed
by Mozart
and his gang for the whole
continent. Sibelius did not agree,
or Nielsen;
or you my Carl in that dance time,
all those tapping feet on the bare boards
in the green Miners Association hut,
aged not enough
and the white liquor sipped from a small glass
spilt for the slipping and we ended in a bundle
in the corner, you
still demanding your share of the berries.
I played it a little,
had enough notes for a lament
when the foreman
came with the letter.
I'd play
for Eino when we got here
on the days he was too warm;
for Clara when I missed
my lake and the leaves
and for you my love as you drifted
into a worn sleep.
My fingers move a little more now,
as I learn to pretend to their dance.
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