(said Van Gogh)
I usedta love music
and you usedta stare into my eyes, the soundtrack
to my voice.
You never joined me
at the piano concerto
where I saved you a seat, second row center.
We never traveled to MOMA
to together grasp Vincent’s intense
I hate music.
The house fills each evening
with your clamorous chest voice,
I am Vincent, missing an ear;
I cut it off to spite your sound.
You refuse a hearing aid for the one you have left
to forsake metaphor for truth
in “turning a deaf ear”
to my brazen belting.
Thru it, we discern Beethoven’s sheet music,
run trembling hands over our transcendent dissonance,
savor the harmony of our cacophony.