Hitting the Wrong Note

 

Rooted next to his upright piano,

close in the tiny room,

I couldn't breathe.

He held one hand

to the small of my back,

the other across my

taut diaphragm:

 

(I can believe he loved

the music, but he craved

only angels, expected them -

and, by God, he was

going to have them,

even if he clipped

their wings along the way).

 

Here, understand? From here!

A scrawny fledgling, I could not rise -

not that time, the next, not ever.

 

The news wouldn't tell

who was among the chosen,

but when I think of the shame

in hitting the wrong notes,

I understand how crooked

my flight could have been

if I'd ever hit all the right ones.

_________________

 

("He" was my choirmaster when I was eleven years old. At the time I knew him he was known as Barry Brunton. His whereabouts are currently unknown, but he is wanted by the constabularies of at least three counties in connection with historical child abuse offences dating back to the 1970s).