THE ÉTUDES Poem by Jan Wagner

forgive me, maestra, but i hated you
and your piano, the carpet-smoth-
ered wednesday afternoons, the row
of yellowing nag's teeth,

the instrument baring its keys, reluctant
to enter the house where the ivy's
musical score was let grow rampant
all over the drain pipes, the crown glass

inserts of the door appeared
to refract and pool the light, then blurred
as something large rose through the well-shaft
of the stairs and you, madame, surfaced,

peered down on me, impeccable and stern
as a fugue, relented and admitted me
who held the boogie woogie
for beginners under my arm.

how well i understand your short
temper today, the scales, the chords
long since died away - in a flash
it all returns to me whenever i chance

upon the ghost of your perfume,
heavy as a last act, in bus or supermarket,
the tick-tick of the metronome,
merciless in its oaken casket

from which a thin cadaverous finger
emerged, the pendulum clock,
the photos on the wall behind the black-
lacquered monster; you heard something

inside it i could not understand, the two-four,
three-six time etudes, the shimmer-
ing lamp of tea on the table and i still am
not sure is it schubert or schumann.