Professor Kröte’s Death

By | 1 June 2013

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 Lehrer1.
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.

  1. Rest in peace my teacher
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