Clock in.
The day burst full of patients and reports, ripping bread and lunch meats, smashing bites between the teeth. The clouds
outside distend, pregnant with a city’s sorrow
7,000 miles away.
We care for wounded soldiers
They laugh about a sniper’s miss,
the number of rumbles, a 50 caliber gun,
such a heavy cross to bear.
Their lips part, they punch the air with sound, but all that’s flashing in our eyes are
children sifting through the rubble for the place they once called home.
Each breath births another child,
A burned red tremble.
With bandaged stumps they climb upon our shoulders and press down.
We look each dusted angel in the eye and hold out shaking hands for them to climb up high until it’s time.
Clock out
We drive, hungry, numb, the weight of 8000 children on our backs. We drive to an orchestra and sit, bedridden in the pews.
The Magic Flute clocks in.
Our spirits rush the stage.
We tumble through musicians.
Honeyed fingers tickle strings.
We sit in trumpet’s lap.
We sift through black tuxedos,
grab the sparkling gowns,
gawk at each musician’s hands muscled by mistakes, by practice.
Music from another time flows through us.
Mozart resurrects.
He speaks as a poppy’s petals flutter,
as the little legs of bumblebees struggle to the nectar.
His sound
strikes loose the stones that dam a heart.
The symphony takes flight.
The clouds weep
The rain falls down.
Our cheeks get wet.
Brother Mozart speaks relief.
—Sol Frye
