She wears her sweater like a fur seal

sentinels its coat. Fine azure hair

prickles from rough weave. Merino,

she breathes, as if confessing a seraph

visitation, my father lifted it

from Chez Julienne while the couple

flirted with slow steps. He was rarely home.
I paint her without silver lining,

the pale Steinway grand turning copen

from asphyxia. Her hands have their own power.

More than once he made me watch, she lowers

her eyes. Do you think we were partners?

She veils guilt with nimble fingers, voice

soft as fluff wafting from thrashed wool.
But I played his game. Chopin always leads

lovers to the dancefloor. For a second,

she relives bitterness. I soften her features

with indigo pencil, feel the dry scrape of lead

against paper and request something Russian.

She falls silent, slumps over the keyboard,

her sketched figure awash with smudges of blue.