Dvořák's Symphony No. 9 in E Minor
It must have been regal once.
Ghosts of ladies in satin evening gowns the color of
peacock, chimney smoke, absinthe, sea glass
flit across the cracked marble floor.
A giant chessboard, the squares alternate
red, black; red, black.
Mahogany banisters covered in dust
lead the staircase up to the second floor balcony.
Here’s a monocle; there’s a pair of
opera binoculars lying on a silk evening glove;
at the foot of the stairs a pocket watch, stopped long ago;
by the door a glass slipper leaning against a ruby slipper.
In the theatre proper,
the black stage gives way to scattered chairs
and music stands. The score looks as though
it was tossed in the air and the individual pages,
left to their own devices, rained down
Violet curtains are already—still?--
pulled to either side and secured like drapes.
A large red brooch lays in the
concertmaster’s seat, highlighted by the sun
streaming in through the cracks in the frescoed ceiling
and partially crumbled back wall.
Sitting in the black in the dark blue
plush seats, one can almost hear the
tap tap tap
of the conductor’s baton.
Everyone is listening.
What I Want
I want to be able
to touch you
Viannah E. Duncan writes poetry and creative nonfiction. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Wilkes University and lives with her cat Cleopatra in the Baltimore, Maryland, area. For more, please visit: http://www.duncanheights.com