Photo by Anastasia Kolchina (Pexels)
Please Do Not Touch or Play the Piano. Thank You, Management
Ecem Yucel
It’s not so much that we are worried about
the sticky fingerprints on the smooth, polished,
beautiful black surface, on which you can see
a darker yet classier reflection of yourself
nor the possibility of it slightly slipping
out of tune every time a lay individual presses
on the ivory keys in a rough manner — because what is
the yearly cost of tuning a grand piano every month?
Around the price of a kidney in black market?
We are not too worried about it being broken
by a teenager on the bigger side either, who claims
he’s angry at the world, at the system, the rich,
the corruption, the greed, and listens to dark metal
as if horribly hoarse, meaningless screams can be
religion — when he’s obviously angry at his parents,
for no good reason, not to mention a little horny —
nor we are worried about hearing a headache
inducing ruckus all day, created by the passersby
randomly punching the keys, with the frustration etched
in their souls and the envious desire to destroy
every good/elegant/alluring thing they come across,
their noise a rendering of their unvoiced inner chaos.
No, what we are really worried about is your touch
being lonely, even when you are with someone,
forcing a smile, pretending to have a good time,
repeating in your mind, what’s there not to be
grateful, feel normal, act content, cry inward?
Because our piano is cursed, you see, there was
a time it belonged to a lonesome pianist, who wrote
songs to imbibe the happiness of the audience,
to leave them all empty shells. What the pianist
didn’t know was that his audience had already
been empty. When he died, he haunted his piano,
as an act of revenge, to absorb the lonely yet faking,
forever trapping them inside with him. Their touch is their ID.
Like fingerprints. You don’t believe it? Even in a world
where dictators consult their fortune tellers before going
to war to kill thousands, and artists read their astrological
charts till they go cross-eyed before launching a new album?
Still not buying it? Well, please don’t fucking touch
the piano either way. You never know.
Ecem Yucel (she/her) is an Ottawa-based Turkish-Canadian poet, writer, translator, and interpreter. She holds an MA in World Literatures and Cultures from the University of Ottawa and currently works as a cultural interpreter. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Evergreen Review, Salamander Magazine, HAD, Maudlin House, Overheard, Stanchion, Autofocus, Gone Lawn, Idle Ink, and more. Find her at www.ecemyucel.com
X/Twitter: @TheEcemYucel
Instagram: @the.ecem.yucel