Dissonance

Dissonance

Not the same sounds,
but close, elbowing each other
to reach the ear, jostling.

A collection of notes can cause
discomfort, a pang
at the mess of them jutting

out at you, a long
ladder and steel pipes tied
to the truck in front

of you with thin yellow twine.
Humans possess
a limited tolerance for tension

between what we
expect and produce. My first
piano lesson, right

thumb smashed onto middle C,
left hand unable
to find its footing, slipping

here and there
over black keys. So disappointing,
my inability to bring

beauty into the room. I clawed
at the smooth enamel,
I was desperate to generate

melody, as we all
are, sitting before a gleaming
instrument that

only waits for us. And what is
it that we play
when we fold the keyboard’s lid

back into itself:
chopsticks. The right hand part
we plink out with

both hands high up on the keys,
scraping notes
together, hoping for someone

to play the lower
part, steady chords nudging us
toward resolution.