by Adam Bjelland
Perhaps born from two notes of music,
The offspring of a bright, yellow A
and a melancholy E,
She comes to me in a new song,
Or appears suddenly in the arrangement
Of a classic composition, where she’d
never resounded before.
Long after I’ve forgotten her face
And atoned for my digressions,
I hear her in intervals and I’m
Stricken with a sharp chord of consonance.
Perhaps the mortal incestuous incantation
Of Apollo and Terpsichore,
She holds the key, haunting me in measures.
Her contours entrance me, and with
Staccato half-steps I always walk back
To her for reprise.
Yet rhythmically sovereign.
If I were deaf, maybe I could forget her
Adam Bjelland is an English teacher from Long Island. His fiction has been published in The Offbeat, Microtext Anthology 3 by Medusa's Laugh Press, Word Riot, and The Other Stories. He is also the winner of the inaugural Poetry Broadsides contest at Thirty West Publishing.