The 25th Prelude

By Taya Boyles

My mother symphonized stars to constellations
in pointe shoes, though my father always
stepped on her chimerical feet,
with steel-toed boots
I was half hulu girl on a dashboard
half flat tire, rattling threats to blow
the structure off its hinges.
When the curtain calls
there are no more dress rehearsals
and neither of my parent's ears
registered encores or a silent stage
I was meant to cut the genealogical strings
that performed a broken note and not a Concord
and yet here I am
out-screaming Chopin, choppy and pauperizing,
knowing a parched throat would welcome dust
for something to coat their tongue wet
and when a strangers hands passed notes
with my lonely in a crowd, my monophonic metronome
has enough room for a duet.