Conception
by Michael Keshigian


Barefoot in white slacks
and her husband’s sweater,
she plays the piano most seriously,
bungling Mozart with a grimace
then a grin,
the lamplight
flickers unnoticed upon her fingers.

The field from where her progeny
once thrived has withered,
grown voices and opinions
have fled the confines of the arena
where music,
like a tranquilized tiger,
swerves again.

Her foot presses pedals,
fingernails deliberately flit keys,
and in her womb
a musician is conceived.
The house is no longer empty,
half full with sound,
she nourishes herself.






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