With force
Mary
My piano teacher is pushing me
to audition for the Talent Show.
It’s like a conspiracy,
everyone wanting me to play.
He says:
It’s a shame not to share
your music with the world.
It’s like a painter
never showing her art
or a poet never reading her words.
My mom says:
Why did we pay for all those lessons
if you won’t play in public?
My dad says:
Listen to your mom!
I say:
When I’m not playing
parts of me drift, like notes
lifted off the bars, floating
aimlessly in space.
Isn’t it enough that I feel best
when I’m playing, that playing
makes me feel most like the me
I was meant to be?
Isn’t that worth your money, Mother,
or would you rather see me
in pieces, lost, with nothing
to make me whole?