for Kathleen Lewis
. . . so she sits mute on the long blue couch
knowing something important's happening
and these shadows around her two women crouched
at her side one man at her feet are her offspring
(she's almost certain) who are talking
talking about her while notes flit and flare
in her head like firesparks and she wants to walk
away from them all toward silence anywhere
but the photos on her piano prove
when she was eighteen in 1925
her touch must have shaken every room
she entered showing there's a brief time bright
for everyone: a flushed spell when our blood comes
together the music all trumpets and drums . . .