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Description
She fingers the long wooden box, tips graze
splintered hickory wood. Plum painted nails
gently feel over its rugged curves, brushing
away lead dust that painted over its surface.
She imagines feeling along his robust shoulders.
Where the golden metal trim met the keyhole,
she thought of skimming his collar bone.

She strikes the heart of the box, the way
she’d hit him when he’d come home late.
She’d fall into his arms and he would laugh
in silence, but she would feel him shaking-
the music box vibrates before the melody
commences. Piano keys, struck with swift,
thrusting jabs, come even with her heartbeat.

Tears stream down her smooth belled cheeks
in quick liquid vines, branching one way
down her budding lips, another down
the curve of her neck. She brushes them,
even as the furnace of her eyes burn; the song
igniting streams of fiery red in her eyes.
Slowly sinking to her knees, the widow

watches the music box on the dining table,
She rests her head within her cupped hands,
melody wrapping her in his arms; his shadow
bends over, before fading in a dreary key.