By Andy Mitchell
Flattening out the dough with a warped rolling pin,
flour blooming into clouds in the kitchen sky, she cuts
familiar lasagna strips, then pinches & twists
odd little shapes, singing arias under her breath,
(hitting all the flats and sharps)
one I remember hearing her sing full-voiced
years ago. She was in college, the end of term.
Students all over campus were humming along
to the songs on their headphones.
Birds were whistling hymns to the sun. “Spring,” they were singing,
“Spring!” From the top of their little throats. The warblers
and the wannabes. All partaking of, all reveling in
the newly-scented air. The world was abuzz, fragrant with song,
the most potent coming from the one standing alone (farthest from her nest)
in an empty rehearsal room, empty but for her (this one now standing
before me) and the entire music department faculty, whose eyes
and ears were trained on her, as I paced the hall outside
eager as I am today
for the results.
