I press an awkward, double-fingered song

Across my daughter’s toy piano keys.

Inside I hear the hymns of childhood gone;

Still sung in ugly churches far from me

By throats unadorned and stiff.

These ancient hymns; the German language strong;

The Bible book; always opaque black tights;

Traditions; bearded men; a place to belong;

And God; and being woman, mother, wife.

These things were pushed into my mouth back then,

And they were twisted, poisonous, I choked.

But when I cleaned them well, untangled them,

Beneath the wrinkles and the smell of smoke,

I found that I can call them good again.

……………………………………….

A few months ago, my sister asked me if I ever write poetry. Mostly, I don’t. Especially not proper poetry with rhythm and meter. But she inspired me to try it, as she has been inspiring me to write things ever since I was 10ish years old.

So here you go, tula.

It felt like a frustrating brainteaser.