Jonathan Gavazzi

A Tired Song Keeps Playing

Speak the blue

house against a

subtle tongue, Jonathan you

were named for it—the grace of god, like sliding

across such kitchens as this, linoleum mecca, age

five & coddled in pajamas, she

caressed you from tantrums, un-

spooled the cassette tape patiently, now carry

the weight you have not carried, stay

put for her despite

piano lessons, despite scribbling, after all

you called him dad & she corrected you, he called

this home & she did not, Jonathan say

ah,

thirty-six black keys but first

you will learn to count, understand son, it

is painted across time, there are rules even to

mixing, stop, you are

shaking the bed with this & she needs rest, you

were always crying, always doing this, always vined against

her legs in the atonal exposure of supermarket parking

lots, once, she said, it even

took a man the brute & smoky rasp of your

young father, twenty-one years, to keep her fingers

from your crib, to re-

strain her, crooning very late that night beneath the silent mass of

a ceiling at which you stared, a white ceiling for

years, thrashing on your small

back & blue-worm

tongue out reeling, pitchless, there

there, in this house you learned your name, the few sacred

rules, to

stop crying for what you

wanted, to carry the thumb under, Jonathan you

know better, always push the track-one back, start

strong, yes, but always wait seven seconds before

you press record.

Jonathan Gavazzi writes poetry in Baltimore, Maryland.  He is a founding editor of Artichoke Haircut, a literary and arts publication, and a co-host of "You're Allowed," a monthly reading series.