Rachmaninoff

Do you remember?

Sure you do.

You remember the night,

the weather, the stars.

I remember everything.

So do you.

You remember the music,

the masterpiece upon

the air and my reply

to your alluring look.

You remember what

you wanted.

I do too.

Yet what I did not know,

what you knew

and your hellish friend

knew with you

is what you would do

to the love I composed

out of innocence and devotion

or try to do.

You knew it must be

sacrificed to gods I

did not worship. I

worshiped you. Poor me.

Political you.

Now I have the music.

I play it for myself

and those who care

to listen, wondering how

such strains of magic

are woven from

thin air. I do not tell

I learned it from a spider

who attempted murder

accompanied by music

in a silken lair.