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My Inheritance
Lindsey Blasingame

In the hallow room at the center,
holding up the house and frame.
If an ivory key was pushed just hard enough,
the sickly vibrato notes would ring relentlessly,
hitting tile and wall.

And this would happen every Wednesday night.
Violently and repeatedly, haunting me
as I was forced to learn to play,
as all ladies should.
Though I came up wanting.

And every Friday the flecks that
peeled from the embroidered wood
would stain my hands like blood on the carpet
and the smell of cherries – and wood polish –
would linger in my hair for the rest of the weekend.

But it was my mother’s will as the two
before her in line for the same inheritance,
and now as I’ve left the sheets of music dusty and away,
I still wonder who I detest more:
My mother or that damn piano.