The Practice Room
Poem
The door is thick, at least two inches but
it won’t muffle the sound.
It closes on this small place,
the white paint peeling,
the graffiti of distracted musicians
fading from the walls.
I am stifled and
out of breath and
its hot now.
Sweat slithers down my back.
I stare down the piano
whose octaves never seem to agree.
The F’s just can’t get on the same page.
This wooden, failing thing is stronger than me.
But still, I imagine my body emptying
of everything that I love and
filling with air.
Sound is forced from the folds of my tired soul
where it once was a secret.
It balloons along the curve of my diaphragm
is squeezed by my epigastrium
passed through my larynx and
vibrated between my vocal chords.
An hour later I am choking on heat
on the tightness that has crept
its way into my mechanism
and the room lets me go.
more by NOELLE CURRIE
photograph by Jamille Queiroz
