Lost in the Pachelbel Canon

There were four of us—

attached by the mouth

with a silver string.

(we could also hang on

with our fingertips)

Mostly rooted, we still had sway.

 

And light—

Light bounced off us like we were diamonds

or gills on living fish in water

with sun and rocks and clear

(as if clear were a thing and we could have it)

Sparks streaked and zoomed around us

burst and bent along the pipeline

of instrument connecting us,

a silver highway guide, in a pattern of break and rejoin

dictated by gradient and curve and swell.

 

We were movement—

The church: a car. And us:

the zooming road outside its window.

(They perceived they were the ones moving.)

But when it seemed we had arrived

we couldn’t stop.

Wild waves of crescendo rose

and panicked tempos made dissonance

where none was written in.

Notes crashed together like water.

Our faces shined with spray.

 

But there was protocol for this,

beginning with eye contact.

Then Dominique played the descant, I settled

back into my half notes,

and we all unwound and resolved.

 

Then we stepped back into the church

as if we truly never left,

took our seats to the side

of the sea of wedding guests,

cradled our flutes like wet newborns,

and returned smiles.

 

by Kim Groninga, © 2009

from Other Things that Grow, Final Thursday Press 2010

 

 

Last updated January 11, 2012

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