By Meredith Mason
A pianist tells me the left hand
is a different animal entirely.
Not sinister so much as hidden.
from God’s comforting trick
which lulls us into believing
there is a way for the right hand
to know what the left hand is doing.
The pianist does not fear
the left-handed territory.
He knows that beauty
does not require understanding,
and this is one of the reasons
I believe him
when he says he loves me.
But sometimes listening,
I come untethered from
my own reasons. The terrain around me
becomes wild. I adopt its ways,
and forget convention.
I don’t know what I’ll do next, or why.
I recall a lecture given by a professor
who clashed with school administration.
With a twinkle in his eye
he said he had his doubts
about the principle of deduction.
He laughed more easily
than the dour and serious types,
and years later his words
surface on strange days
when I know that everything
is always only itself,
blooming constantly anew.