Melinda LePere
someone is practicing.
The organ repeats a run, pounding
walls of stone. Notes crash
flash to the rafters. A riptide
rumbles below. Where do they find rest
those wayward notes?
Look at the constellations, connected dots of mammoth stars
and all the dark awash between, like shadows framed
by a nighttime door. Once, my brother
colored a family portrait—manila paper coated
solid black. He explained we were all there
in his room behind a black curtain.
Hear the father’s chuckle, the murmurs
of children, the shuffle
of cards, the slap and scratch
as they gather tricks
across a midnight table.