Late Quartets<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
At home, the deaf boy must spend his days
\nwith a piano he does not play. His small white hands
\nstay tucked in pockets under overlong t-shirts
\nthat brush his knees. No one in the house plays.<\/p>\n
The boy avoids the room where the piano collects
\nsilence, sees his mother as a woman recollecting
\ngirlhood, her shape defining a sundress as she stands
\nfingertips extended toward the keys, understanding<\/p>\n
again the texture of familiar sound, counting one,<\/em> the bay-window to afternoon. It must be fall. It is cold <\/p>\n \u201cLate Quartets\u201d originally appeared in The Threepenny Review.<\/em><\/p>\n Luke Johnson i<\/a>s the author of the poetry collection After the Ark<\/a><\/em> (New York Quarterly Books, 2011). His poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Beloit Poetry Journal, New England Review, The Southern Review, Threepenny Review,<\/em> and elsewhere. His work has been featured on Poetry Daily<\/a><\/em> and Verse Daily,<\/a><\/em> and has twice appeared in the Best New Poets<\/em> anthology. He lives and works in the Ballard neighborhood of Seattle.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Late Quartets At home, the deaf boy must spend his days with a piano he does not play. His small white hands stay tucked in pockets under overlong t-shirts that brush his knees. No one in the house plays. … Continue reading
\n two,<\/em> and a pause here as if she were waiting for her son
\nto answer three, four<\/em>. She cannot see him crouched
\nback-to-the-stairwell. She can only see out<\/p>\n
\nand there are leaves. This is not music, but keeping time:
\na way of acknowledging what we\u2019ve been told
\nwe cannot choose: seasons, ourselves, our family.<\/p>\n