Jodie Hollander

2 Poems

The Rathskeller

The old brown Steinway in the basement
had once perhaps been even beautiful,
a gift to my father from an adoring student.
But Mother firmly insisted it be moved
to the Rathskeller, where no one ever went,
except the dogs to leave behind hard turds
or else the cats to hide in lightning storms.
Yet this was where my father always went
to escape his nagging wife and needy kids.
For hours on end, Father practiced down there,
thundering away at the same musical riff,
only to emerge at dinner dripping with sweat.
There Mother saved him the shortest stool
and often prepared his least favorite meal.
What are you doing down there? We’d ask.
Preparing for concerts was all he’d ever say,
shovelling in mouthfuls of beans and rice,
and refusing to look at Mother across the table.
He’d wash a few dishes, take out the trash,
then descend back into the Rathskeller again.
Once my sister and I snuck down there together.
We found that not a single light switch worked,
and so it was in darkness we first saw it:
brown and stalwart, and pushed up against a wall.
The piano’s white keys were all yellowing,
like the teeth of beasts we’d seen in picture books;
and some of the black keys sounded muffled,
as if they were being suffocated by a pillow—
My sister and I sat at the bench together,
throwing back our heads and closing our eyes,
humming along and pretending to be Father.
We got on our knees and played with the foot petals,
found pressing them could make the keys play
all on their own, as if a ghost were inside—
and so that morning we played on the ghost piano,
giggling and inventing songs in the darkness,
and wondering if our father would ever appear.

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