The Spanish doors opened
to archways and dark wood floors. The rooms bare.
In the distance, we could see
water tricking over a stone dove and vine leaves; the side garden
calling us outside as we entered the house.
Their agent said the woman was artistic, had placed a piano there
in the corner -- but it seemed too large, not in accord
with the other pieces. I asked him if she ever played.
He said "no" and nothing else.
And I thought -- if music throbbed in her hands
and was liberated like a bird,
it would dart back and forth. Disoriented, slamming
itself into fallen flight.
The windows had wrought-iron bars, and the house
felt cloistered, almost paranoid -- to accept Mozart or the light.