Anne Whitehouse
Night Muse
for Marna Williams
I sat listening to you
play “Moonlight Sonata”
with the lights off
because you knew the music by heart.
The room was narrow,
paneled in pine
with one wall of windows.
Outside were pine woods
growing down a steep slope,
inky black below the night sky.
Inside, flickering candle flames
reflected in the window.
You sat at the piano,
your back to me,
your light-brown wavy hair
catching the candlelight.
I closed my eyes and let
the music fill me
with inexpressible longings,
the possibility of happiness
imprisoned inside me
for its own protection.
After the music,
we discussed art and literature.
I remember your breathless way
of speaking,
the words tumbling
in excitement,
the quality of your mind.
Fifty years later,
you say you never knew
the miseries I fled from.
