You, c-shaped, ankles crossed under a piano stool,
suspended notes, pages the colour of weak tea, cases
buckled, black and stiff. Rememberings—the kitchen
sink, his arms around your thighs, deckled light
in the story chair, bedtime kisses to his forehead,
sheets printed with blue planes, you tippy-toeing
back to the lounge, the warm belly of a mug of tea,
him dreaming. Grief watches your folded songs,
cups your shoulder, taps the metronome You are deaf
to the tone of Spring, freesias farewelled the bones
of winter, Sunday smells like sluiced grass.
Through the lounge sash, a wren flits, her morning
bath. Your fingers hover on ivory, chin tilting, lifting,
lids closed. An aria splashes out—bare feet on baltic
boards, teddy and him in your bed. You held him
in your nape, stroked away his monsters, sang his lashes
dry. You played the melody of him, reached every octave.
His name is a whole note, with fermata, a whole note.