I do not know Chopin.
I do not know Schumann.
I am deaf, the rain I couldn't hear
falling, I see it on the ground
as drizzles like invisible birds
scudding from tree to tree,
the marks of their tonic claws
are the only ones I could see.
There is a gun loaded with bullets
and it must be fired, Chekhov said.
I have to see the ground red with truth,
with blood gushing from an open rib
or if I could see myself firing it
to someone, if it backfires, ripping
my very own rib or skull open.
It's alright; my brain will be shattered.
My heart knows the music, the gun,
your name engraved on it.
And I hope you know the music, too,
even when played by my elbows.
The gun, I have no say, but I hope
it wouldn't be fired. You are Chekhov,
the creator of the rule. The curtains
fall at the command of your voice.