Mozart Hands
by Becca J.R. Lachman
.
My mother tells me I have
Mozart hands. A music teacher,
she should know. “Such little hands
for so much you want to do,” she coos
over a new composition fit to my
fingers, the chorus a round red ring.
…………………………My panty-hosed piano teacher in college
…………………………shows me how to stretch cartilage
…………………………between fingers, thumb. In smooth moon arcs,
…………………………I’m supposed to want to widen my reach.
…………………………“Make yourself play it,” I hear her repeat.
So swallow-boned, my hands have learned nothing
except to want a little more, resting on wrists
that threaten by day’s end to bend, break, take
away the crescendo or the poem’s best ending
because they are hollow or just so damn tired.
…………………………I order my wedding dress based
…………………………on new measurements: size four
…………………………on top, a twelve on the bottom. This
…………………………can’t be right, or am I such a tilting treble
…………………………clef, meant to stand so gruelingly
…………………………grounded, hipped to things I cannot
…………………………hold in place for long?
I can barely reach an octave on the piano
keyboard, making Rachmaninoff even more
Romantic because I could never truly
have him. And such is life; the simplified version
performed in quiet practice rooms, or only
for audiences made up of family and the dog.
…………………………In my early twenties, in a distant city, I duck
…………………………into a Tiffany’s to get my real ring size,
…………………………just in case. Just for me, curious. Barely a 4½.
…………………………“A dainty finger,” the jeweler quips. I’ll let you
…………………………believe it, I think to myself, jutting hands
…………………………like something stolen back into my pockets.
Years later, my husband will have Mozart
memorized, play it some mornings while he’s
waiting for the bathroom, like it’s normal
for perfect cadences to come before granola
or even birdsong. He tunes pianos. He listens
to whatever intervals I play. And he squeezes
my hand, which does not break.
Musical Contribution: “Bit of Green”
In Their Own Words
“Bit of Green” quite literally asked to be a song instead of a poem: its first line surfaced with melody and lyrics. I snuck into the auditorium at Otterbein University where I was a musical theater composition student to lay down the main piano and vocals–and later, surrounded by a sagging pillar of pastel egg-crate mattresses at a local studio, recorded the layered backing vocals.”
About
Becca J.R. Lachman grew up in Kidron, Ohio attending hymn-sings and–on the other end of the spectrum–writing musicals. She now teaches and tutors at Ohio University. It has taken her far too many degrees in music, poetry, and theater to realize that art is a daily, daring education with no diploma. A recent graduate of the Bennington Writing Seminars, her choral music is available through Heritage Press/The Lorenz Corporation. Look for her first poetry collection (The Apple Speaks, Cascadia Publishing House) in March.
