» Poetry

The death of a musician

Alyse Carlson

I return to the prairie
where my alma mater sits, to remember
the clouds of rosin rising from my strings
as the choir sang behind me
soli deo Gloria
and snow fell into the glassy river.

Now, the sun is hot
and I can’t seem to forget the white lights
of the operating room, the hum
of the cautery tool, smoke rising
from burning skin.

Something is dying—
a bloated deer, maybe, lying on the path
by the black river;
turkey vultures are circling overhead
and later, when I practice a slow sonata,
I think of their ragged wings.

I could tell you
this is about rebirth, that my fingers
still clumsy with the suture knots
shake a little less each time,
that they are learning to press on bodies
and see the organs inside.

But this is how a musician dies:
slowly, as the days sweep by
and fingers quietly forget the maps
they once knew, and come up flat
enough times for me to say
oh, my heart
I think something inside me
is leaving.