One Sonata

Walt wrote without music. Ridiculous or astonishing, Chopin, Dvořák

and Schubert were of his age, Song of Myself, the melody forthright,

fortissimo, long before Edison, the parlor Victrola. For Walt, there were

endless days and nights of silence, the Moonlight, no roaring jets

overhead, no revving motors, rude harpies to end a century, occasionally,

a far-off steam whistle, a cannon across the Potomac, the Pastoral 

“bravuras of birds, the bustle of wheat,” an opening of cherry blossoms,

the usual ruckus, the vast, crackling expanse of America, the aftermath

of battles, piteous cries in the grass. Walt must have heard more than

banjo and fiddle, something rare crossing the Atlantic – Beethoven,

a concert once or twice in Brooklyn or Camden. Searching for brother

George in the abundance of limbs, a piano in Washington, a soldier

on the ward played one sonata, the Appassionata (no Eroica).

Walt wept over Pathétique, over the blue and gray pallor of boys.

Now you, if you so choose, not the elect, listen. Simply click, proceed

to checkout. Why remain heedless? Will you weep over one sonata?

My Arms Fell Off

My arms fell off, my dread in a dream, a routine nightmare, actually. I stood bewildered: shall I scream or shrug, “Oh well?” I was convinced I was reduced to the mechanism of my bones.

On our farm, our yellow tabby tomcat, Tom, continued to sire many yellow tabby kitten litters after losing a leg and tail to the mowing machine.

On TV, Bonnie Consolo, about the same age as my mother, was born with no arms. With two feet and a husband, Frank, she raised two boys, Matthew and Mark, in Columbus, Ohio. She washed dishes and drove Mike Wallace to the airport after the interview. For Bonnie, arms might have been handy but certainly superfluous.

I was struck by a stark, black and white image from the Civil War: a heap of limbs outside a tent and the surgeon posed with a saw in hand. What did a young man do when he returned home, when the nation reconciled?

If my arms fell off, I would be useless for work, making love, the simplest of caresses. I would miss swinging them airily on a stroll, nudging with an elbow, wringing my hands when anxious.

Where would my arms go, buried ahead of the rest of me? A ceremony?

The dream, an augury: use these bones happily while attached, thumping cantaloupe at the market a wonder. And if I happen to misplace one or two, I’ll somehow forge my days

despite their absence.