1948

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                        “The most important influence on any -poet would be that 
                        poet’s mother in whose body he or she first began to learn 
                        music…” 
                                    —Sharon Olds 

She was learning German that year, 
a war bride, living in Darmstadt, 
trying to say ich in the back of her throat, 
the guttural r of Herr and Frau, to introduce 
herself and her lieutenant husband, 
pursing her lips 
to form the strange vowel sounds 
of umlaut u and o, 
the difficult blends 
of pfin Apfel and zw in zwei. 

            Years later, when I studied German, 
            these sounds surprised me, shaping 
            themselves on my tongue as easily 
            as a baby finds its fist and sucks. 

That spring she sat long hours at the piano, 
exercising her fingers 
with Hanon first, then Mozart. 
When each finger knew its strength, 
she played Chopin. When her hands 
reached the octave with ease, 
Beethoven followed. Closing her music 
and her eyes, she’d finish 
with Rachmaninoff, her whole body 
hand-centered, each finger an emotion, 
each key its release.

            The fortes, the pianissimos, 
            each rallentando pulsed in me 
            and I knew before I was born 
            I would hunger, I would hate, 
            I would fear, I would seek sorrow. 

That summer as August approached 
and she grew awkward, swelling 
with the heat, 
my mother stood evenings at the window
wishing some breath of the river 
might move in the heavy draperies, 
might ease her longing for blue mountains,
for arched skies of home. 
Here the sky spread like a flat sheet 
from one corner of the horizon 
to the other. 
She wished for blue, anything blue. 
She said my eyes were her wish granted. 

            When I finally saw her mountains, the sky
            canopied like a domed cathedral, 
            chips of blue glass in every window, 
            I cried 
            for her and for myself. 
            I knew this was home, 
            like an infant knows, still slick and bloody,
            to turn its head toward the sound 
            of its mother’s voice.