Practice Room

by Ivy Aloa Robb


Sometimes, the pianos kept my warmth

Long enough for me to come back to it every night.

I’d take the stairs to the highest floor

And choose the practice room with the cherry blossom rug

So that if my body got anywhere,

I could be found among the flowers.

There was a note on the side of the piano’s uprightness

That read:

“Please, remember to close the window”.

I would play songs, forgetting the notes.

As a C # melted into the office next-door,

(I hoped someone would hear it), I would open up

The window and perch

Myself  upon its sill,

The way I saw the pigeons do.

They loved to be so high up.

I know because they sing about it.

So beautifully, I could never

Not think about it—

It was as scripted as the choir’s chorus.

I wanted to be high up with them,

But only long enough to stare

Into their grain-of-rice-eyes

And plead with them not to catch me. They were too fat,

Waxy and slow,

To save me.



Ivy Aloa Robb is an emerging artist and poet living in northern Minnesota. Her work can be found in Lindenwood Review, VampCat Journal, and is forthcoming in Mineral Lit Mag. When she is not writing you can find her bird watching or brewing tea.





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