Unlearning the Piano

After all these years, it turns out to be

like anything else: making love,

baking bread, holding a newborn baby.

The mind is a voyeur.

Shut it out. There is no getting it right,

only the music, the shape of the phrase,

the secret bound up in the silence

of the rest, the forward motion

as you travel from the relative minor

to the tonic key, moving beyond

metaphor to the thing itself-

my body turning in time to yours,

the dough rising to the warmth,

the baby opening her mouth to be fed.