The Practice Room

poem about music

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

 

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Noelle Currie

I have been writing short fiction and poetry for ten years. I recently completed the second of two novels that are currently unpublished. I was the winner of The Book Doctor’s Pitchapalooza in 2013 and recipient of the Gold Medal in poetry in the Tunxis Academic and Art Challenge in 2009. I submit poetry and short fiction pieces to the creative writing website ImageCurve.com weekly. I graduated from the University of Connecticut in 2013 with a degree in vocal performance. My second love is singing opera.

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