I Ask My Father to Play

I ask my father to play. He picks up  
the varnished double tube of russet wood.  
Keys click. He blows through a reed,  

with its shellacked red knob, whining blast,   
fastened on the crook. Out come  
startling sounds of amber and musk.  

Funny scales, smokey tones. He plays  
Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev,  
the grandfather, the sorcerer’s apprentice 

whose spells made too many brooms.  
And the world of magic comes to my eyes,  
though he scoffs at magic.  

The world of prayer comes to my soul,  
though he — who set Dachau free — despises god.  
And the truth of love entered my heart,  

though I’ve never known where his was  
because he picked up his bassoon  
and wandered elsewhere. 

LENORE ROSENBERG

American and Italian, Lenore Rosenberg currently lives in Rome. Living in three countries and never coalescing is a distinct country, like poetry. Her poems have been published in Bare Hands Poetry, Poetica Magazine, Double Reed, and American Poets Abroad. She contributed to Poetry is Like Bread Ghazal. Her work is found in The Poetry of Lockdown 2020, Loud Coffee Press.