The Piano

They brought in the piano after my grandma died,

I was a little girl then, with pink ribbons on my pigtails,

White frocks and little socks,

Teddy bears and gracious dolls were my worlds. 

The first time I laid my hands on the piano, they took away my uncle, for a crime he didn’t commit,

I was a young girl then,

Novels and lipsticks,

Pens and perfumes were the gems I beheld.

That one time when I tuned the piano, for its keys were rusty and its tune was hoarse,

My husband stabbed his cigarette into my skin, for spending his wealth on this old, rusty thing. 

Cigarette butts and baby diapers,

The spatula and the vermillion were my only belongings then. 

When they took the piano away, my soul went with it. 

The white bedsheets and syringes,

Old medicine bottles and blood stained hankies were the only objects that I left behind.