The Piano Speaks

     After Erik Satie

For an hour I forgot my fat self, 
my neurotic innards, my addiction to alignment.

For an hour I forgot my fear of rain.

For an hour I was a salamander 
shimmying through the kelp in search of shore, 
and under his fingers the notes slid loose 
from my belly in a long jellyrope of eggs 
that took root in the mud. And what

would hatch, I did not know— 
a lie. A waltz. An apostle of glass.

For an hour I stood on two legs 
and ran. For an hour I panted and galloped.

For an hour I was a maple tree, 
and under the summer of his fingers 
the notes seeded and winged away

in the clutch of small, elegant helicopters.

Sandra Beasley, published in Poetry Magazine