Be It So

art: Macie, @markmaking.bymacie

Be it so.

The piano.

The keys.

The catalyst hands

carved from oak

stenciled in stone:

Principesa.

Be it so.

Without a cover,

uninsulated air dust

diving one-by-one

fields of fallen follicles.

Be it so.

Metallic veins rusted from

dehydrated vibrations

swing at a fingertip

strokes that stem

serenading sounds

of phantasmagoria

line-dancing.

Be it so.

The voices.

The whispers.

The humming.

An aptitude for attitudes.

A sway of the cranium

in the form of an

upside down protractor

subtle, yet generates inertia.

Be it so.

A meticulous, methodical,

memorization of sanitizing notes

hanging from line segments

portraying shuffled majors

or shallow minors

glass-cracked tropes.

Be it so.

Illiterate eyes.

Black–ink–blind.

Plain white paper.

Rhythm–mixed–rhyme

make for harmonious

elephant waltz

perhaps, any permutation of

magisterial mahogany.

Be it so.

Frolic with the right.

Scamper with the left.

The in-between

each essential, to the fracturing

of the piano–cuento–prose.

Be it so.

Principesa.

Amore.

Once a year,

taken out of

the midnight shadows

from the attic.

“Let it breathe,” you say.

“Set it free.”

Those chapped,

desert lips

once told me

it takes two

or three

never less

to tickle a key.

by Christopher Mardiroussian

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