Text of the Poem
Sometimes, in the middle of the lesson, we exchanged places. She would gaze a moment at her hands spread over the keys; then the small house with its knickknacks, its shut windows, its photographs of her sons and the serious husband, vanished as new shapes formed. Sound became music, and music a white scarp for the listener to climb alone. I leaped rock over rock to the top and found myself waiting, transformed, and still she played, her eyes luminous and willful, her pinned hair failing down— forgetting me, the house, the neat green yard, she fled in that lick of flame all tedious bonds; supper, the duties of flesh and home, the knife at the throat, the death in the metronome.