by Elizabeth Oxley
My piano teacher says to relax
my fingers. Loose, their bones
curve around the palm, protecting
its center, drawing power
from softness. The music
lies there. Deep in forests,
streams sing across rocks, and coyotes
sustain long notes. On streets,
it's hard to listen past the news:
people picking weapons
instead of flowers, fights
instead of strings. I've heard
of angels in our atmosphere,
spotted by pilots above Earth's rim,
where blue turns fragile.
Could you hold us? I want to ask them.
Just for a while, until we learn
how to use our hands.