Baby Elephants

By: Greta Wu

 

The baby grand piano, bought

by my father for three-hundred dollars,

reminded me of a baby elephant. Sunlight glinted

off its dark curved wood. When I boomed my fingers

on the lowest keys I heard elephants walking. Legs

like massive felled trees, commanding importance.

The delicate clink clink clink of the highest keys

sounded like grains of sand, raindrops.

Or maybe magic spells.

 

I sat my baby brother on the velvety green

bench cushion and made up melodies.

I skimmed the top of his soft black head with my chin

and guided his little fingers. I tried to stop him from pounding—

which he did anyways, flat-handed on tusky white keys.

Baby elephant meeting baby elephant.

 

Much later I meet a baby elephant in Thailand. Soft

fine hairs spring from his head. The backs

of his ears are like the underside of rose petals.

Sun lights up his dark lashes, his sweeping blink.

I think Sonata in G major.

I think of my baby brother.

 

There is swell under my diaphragm

yearning for an elephant and a brother. There

I like to sing and play new songs, my hands

spread over the keys, warm water 

lapping at my thighs.