When a man found a rotting piano
In the woods of Germany,
Each unplayed note traveled through his red blood veins
up to his brain painting colors of wound and gas mask.
He could hear the music of war within each taste of sheltered forest air.
In his nails, shadows of bleed
and drops of motor oil,
the residue of sea salt from the hulls of ships.
The man
Thought of all the Jewish and non Jewish fingers
That never touched each key.
He played all the combinations of chords never played
On the tree trunk next to him.
The man felt his right fingers cramp,
Riger-mortic,
And saw his fallen brother behind the largest tree holding his palm the same way.
He thought of all the stiffened hands sitting in holes dug by living hands,
Hands begging for one more sip of water soup,
Hands begging for freedom,
Hands begging for death.
The man forgot his salt crusted boots.
The man couldn't forget how his gas mask could have saved two more hands to play the unplayed piano.
