Practicing at Sunrise

In the morning’s glissando, 
Canadian night wrapped tightly 
against opaque windows, 
she rises. The brick in her bed 
long since cold. 
Tugging a starched shift 
over her head while 
a chill trills her spine, 
her teeth clench, knuckles stiff. 
She sucks air; listens. 

Her mother is a consonance 
in the yeasty kitchen, 
flames roused, a flat iron 
snug between loaf pans 
on the wide, black stove. 

A quick, descending scale 
down the smooth wooden stairs, 
where she pulls on a sweater 
and rubs her small, white wrists 
for a moment 
in the melody 
of the fire. 

Mother enters the parlor, 
hot iron in hand, 
drapes a tea towel over the keys 
of the pianoforte, 
and in legato strokes 
warms chilled ivory.