Mozart's Concerto for Glass Harmonica

Mozart's Concerto for Glass Harmonica

by Richard Garcia

There you are, at the gate of the memory palace

underneath the rusted teeth of the portcullis,

your hand raised in a puzzling gesture—

is it farewell, come here, get back, no blame,

or are you just trying to hitch a ride? But I've seen

that gesture when you sleep, as if you were saying

to someone, on the one hand . . . on the other hand.

Here is a memory to store in the palace—

You and I at the circus. The arena is dark

except for one blue spotlight. In it, a clown

stands before a table. On the table an array,

crystal wine glasses filled with different levels

of water. He's dressed in white with a conical hat,

tear marks on one cheek. With a wet finger,

he plays music that was once forbidden

because it made musicians lose their minds.

There is a blank look in his eyes and he performs

perfectly, as if he were a mechanical clown.

Now look up, the lady on the trapeze

is dropping large blue crepe-paper flowers.

Maybe the palace is the size of a dollhouse

and my eye at the window is the eye of a giant.

Maybe the palace is in my chest and my heart

is beating too loud inside. I remember

when I woke but was still asleep and saw

my chest rising and falling on its own

and then I accidentally rolled out of my body

and there were two of me lying side by side.

In an alcove shaped like a scallop shell I've placed

a list of the way lovers have said goodbye.

Developer fluid heated up, passed off

as consommé, is a standout. As is GOODBYE

written in shaving cream on the dusty windows

of a row of abandoned cars in Baja. Just as I begin

to suspect what is wrong with this picture

I notice how lightly you step over the grillwork

of the oubliette, that terrible lace under which

men are forgotten. You raise your hand again

and now I understand that gesture—

it's how you erase the distant mountains,

the palace, the sky, everything.