Liver spots and snaking veins tumble like a waterfall
over the ridges of her fingers, curling, pressing
worn ivory into song.
She reminds me of a Gargoyle
perched at Chartres, except they are not stone,
those gnarled, those fluid hands; they are bone
and a little flesh, a little water, they are
a magical touch. 

“Where does your music come from?” I asked,
thinking, “What sliver of joy has escaped
your soul’s dark discord, to dance—
oh! how lightly!—over those yellowed keys?” 

Her pale eyes paused a moment, then slipped past
my gaze and took up again her watch
at that gate she guarded so fiercely. 

“The fingers,” she whispered
“the fingers”—