Dietrich chose cremation, not

a funeral without guests, chose

to rise from wood like notes escaping

their mortal boundary, chose to fly

beyond the piano’s last ivory.
A former pupil in an orange summer

dress receives the urn by morning,

her house clean as an IKEA display,

missing the chocolate smudged hands

on the long beige walls, the shrieks

and red-faced hatred that accompanies

the melody of everyday life.
“Ruhe in frieden mein Lehrer.

You are no longer a foreigner,

you are no longer, and no longer need

the heavy slosh of red wine

to dull and drown the discordant bruise

of ‘an ignorant town.’ You’ve entered the eighth

octave, leaving the rubbish behind.”

Sitting in the warm light of the window

she places Kröte’s urn on her piano.



 Rest in peace my teacher ↩