He loved his power in our small world,
little lashes at the off-pitch note,
a hint of rage to come.
I loved it, too,
for the special danger
he saved for me.
In class he reached for my
expensive French instrument,
wet from my mouth,
showed me how it should be played.
In his locked office I was audience
to the bitter nothing gone right since
the jazz band days.
I hoped to never disappoint him,
received his unfatherly kisses,
his fingers searched for
schoolgirl secrets.
I hoped he would teach me everything;
he moved on
to practice elsewhere,
abandoned me to the safety
of sweaty, fumbling boys.
I learned other lessons
with other teachers.
For years I dreamed of his
rough mustache and
failed musician’s hands.
