Cathedral Melancholy
Every morning in the cathedral the man
who might be a monk plays the organ,
sound streaming through stained glass
on dark angel wings. The music is like
the earth—ancient, scattered, metal sharp.
He must drink wine from old flasks,
red wine, burgundy as god’s beard—fingers
like nails driving each key as a note for
asphalt covering dirt, single arias for
the damned, unrequited love for those
who walk by and never hear.
In the evening he still plays, music less mad:
softer tones, twilight butter, crimson leaves
burnt clef notes that swirl like candle smoke.
Noises seeking salvation’s window,
he twists stories from the keys, light and dark,
black, white, narratives for the lost, forgotten,
for those soon to be absent, disremembered—
fingers sure as a ticking clock, wound backwards—
spring that cannot uncoil, he plays and plays
for those who do not listen.
Ralph Monday is an Associate Professor of English at Roane State Community College in Harriman, TN., where he teaches composition, literature, and creative writing courses. He has been published widely in over 50 journals including Agenda, The New Plains Review, New Liberties Review, Fiction Week Literary Review and many others. His poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Houghton Mifflin’s “Best of” Anthologies, as well as other awards. A chapbook, All American Girl and Other Poems, was published in July 2014. A book Lost Houses and American Renditions is scheduled for publication in May 2015 by Aldrich Press.