On February 23, 2023,
They found blood on the piano

Since then it has been moved to the third floor
Where I go to visit it sometimes 
Blow dust off the lid, trace the dark stained fingerprints
White, white keys now yellow. Sometimes when 

I press down, the same dark fluid leaks out from 
the holes of the pedals, Spilling like oil, smelling like iron
And if I play a song, the keys begin to move by themselves
Spelling out words with the limited scale of seven letters and sounds:

D-E-A-D

D-E-F-A-C-E-D

C-A-G-E-D

Mi

it liked the sound of Re.

When I was younger, my brother refused to tell me
bedtime stories, instead he would whisper: listen
And out came lullabies from his fingertips, arachnid
Eight fingers and two pincers weaving tapestries out of strings of melodies

Our church does not have an organ, only a baby grand
That was more of an elderly unimpressive, that played moonlight sonata, that sounded 
more like sunshadow cantana because it was out of tune and also because
You couldn’t really hear it over the sound of everyone crying

My brother would have jumped out of his casket if he knew
that was the song that played at his funeral on February 23, 2023
But he is not in his casket, only his body
My brother is in our piano on the third floor

His heart is wedged between his bones that make up the hammers
and his brain dampens the melodies when you step on the 
middle pedal, I would have put him in the church’s baby grand but
He would’ve rather performed “Moonlight Sonata”

The piano creaks:
F-A-
So

For three transgressions of my brother:
1.) kissing
2.) a 
3.) Boy
They sent him to be corrected, when he came 
back he did not touch the piano anymore

No notes could describe the melody of his life, so it stayed an 
empty score, whether it was meant to be treble clef or
bass I will never know.

This piece was edited for publication.