Thursday, January 10, 2013

Menu In The Cafe By Grace Schulman

Blue notes like words cry out to one another,
Harsh trumpet phrases, open-horn-like rage
Dug into earth, then risen to huge tones.
Vault the night air and, muted, fall.
At bedtime, Father read a poem in Polish,
lines memorized and chanted, There were trumpets.
and bells in his voice that held back at night
with wizard-talk I never understand.
Words that told secrets, pad locks to pry open.
spells against the dark. my father learned them
from his brother Jan, who cursed greed in music,
and who was found hurt.
Blue trumpet notes that sang to one another,
Secrets that unfurled like silver waves
far out at sea,
then traveled closer, closer.