Fugue
by Crystal Condakes Karlberg
My mother was a lead kettle and she sang.
The sombre notes poured out through her fingers.
Bach in early morning, barely muffled
through the floorboards. Those days
nothing could soothe her, not the breeze
off the water, not the dampers made of cloth.
She rattled and crashed and rattled and crashed
into herself until the softest part of my mother
was her robe. I held on like the drowning
hold on to the drowning, heavy
with expectation that miracles are born
of submissive postures, face down, head in hands.
It is her foot on the pedal that refrains:
una corda, una corda: quiet now, it’s almost over.
Crystal Condakes Karlberg is a graduate of the Creative Writing Program at Boston University. Her poems have recently been published in Mom Egg Review (Pushcart nomination), spoKe, and Ekphrastic Review. She teaches middle school English when she isn't writing or practicing karate.
by Crystal Condakes Karlberg
My mother was a lead kettle and she sang.
The sombre notes poured out through her fingers.
Bach in early morning, barely muffled
through the floorboards. Those days
nothing could soothe her, not the breeze
off the water, not the dampers made of cloth.
She rattled and crashed and rattled and crashed
into herself until the softest part of my mother
was her robe. I held on like the drowning
hold on to the drowning, heavy
with expectation that miracles are born
of submissive postures, face down, head in hands.
It is her foot on the pedal that refrains:
una corda, una corda: quiet now, it’s almost over.
Crystal Condakes Karlberg is a graduate of the Creative Writing Program at Boston University. Her poems have recently been published in Mom Egg Review (Pushcart nomination), spoKe, and Ekphrastic Review. She teaches middle school English when she isn't writing or practicing karate.