"Untitled" by Ana Prundaru
After Ma Died
The sky is back, insistent
with its overcast,
but soothing
in its milkiness
under which doves
come and go like small
airplanes
looking for their ports.
At breakfast, I played
Mozart spinet pieces, purely
Mozart, sad
and happy.
In the dictionary, we
looked up “spinet,” which,
surprisingly, has one n only.
Also, “clavichord,”
“harpsichord,”
“cembalo,” pretty words
from places that the music
brings you,
like a conversation
to make the room
glow—the kind of place,
I thought,
where Ma might be,
if she’s still anyplace.
Joseph Somoza
The sky is back, insistent
with its overcast,
but soothing
in its milkiness
under which doves
come and go like small
airplanes
looking for their ports.
At breakfast, I played
Mozart spinet pieces, purely
Mozart, sad
and happy.
In the dictionary, we
looked up “spinet,” which,
surprisingly, has one n only.
Also, “clavichord,”
“harpsichord,”
“cembalo,” pretty words
from places that the music
brings you,
like a conversation
to make the room
glow—the kind of place,
I thought,
where Ma might be,
if she’s still anyplace.
Joseph Somoza
Joseph Somoza retired from teaching (New Mexico State) and editing (Puerto del Sol) some time back to have more time for writing. He lives in Las Cruces with Jill, a painter.
Ana Prundaru is a writer/artist who roams the globe sometimes. Most recently, she has contributed writing and art to SmokeLong Quarterly, CutBank, Flyway and Rio Grande Review. She lives in Switzerland and can be found online at https://posthaltelei.wordpress.com/.
