Fugue in Yellow

Aisle six, and the girl in the yellow coat 

spills a tower of paper bags—

oranges rolling, a bottle tipping,

the sharp gasp of her mother’s scold.

And suddenly, I am small again,

palms stinging, eyes wide, 

listening to my mother

apologise through the walls.

Something shatters.

I step onto the cold tile.

A violin waits in the corner,

spine straight, bow resting across its lap

like a child told to sit still.

I long to lift it, draw the bow—

hear a sound like doors being opened too fast.

I long to lift it. Play what I can. 

My father’s voice is a radio left on,

low, unbroken static.

I hear him pacing in the yard,

shoes crushing gravel.

The last note I played still vibrates,

faint, like the aftertaste of a lie,

a hand resting on the air

long after it has been slapped away.