The Pianist (for Marie)

and now the piano keys,
sharp teeth, black legged

(I am sure music travels)

stare in a foyer towards
a kitchen where

my grandmother died
there, beside the oven

(was she humming as
she inhaled?)

No judgements
in an obituary
that read:

send flowers
in lieu of money.

She never tolerated
flowers, their silenced,

their funeral-ed perfect
beauty, their lack of hair.

Roses are incapable
of singing, nor
jasmine compose

high notes
in troubled times.

And magnolias
never breath

or play piano
like Marie

she divined.