a poem by Maia Foley, 19′

The skies of my eyes are

raining onto the slatted wooden

bridge beneath them;

the thick droplets, each one

containing enough damage to be

worth an entire hurricane,

drip onto the bars with an

arrhythmic “plink,

                        plank, plunk,”

their music calling nearly in time

with that beneath my hands.

And my hands, of course,

they know the sounds of these storms

by heart; know how to imitate them

without the droplets having to fall, as

once one hears something enough

times, any master of repetition can

easily play back the arrangements…

the beats rest easily in my body,

the source of the drops coming to peace

with the beautiful madness of itself;

it conquers the sounds of its own storm

and turns the weeping cacophony

to music, turns darkness to light, turns

crucifixion to resurrection… and now,

when the skies of my eyes rain, and when I

say that I’m just fine, thanks, believe me–

I’ve simply learned better than to

coexist with, but to exist in; and when I

call myself a drummer, I mean that I

have learned the melodies

to tame all my own storms,

and to conquer the words beneath them.