Kirsty Crawford studied Creative Writing, English and Journalism at the University of Strathclyde, Glasgow before moving to London to study performing arts. Switching career into wildlife conservation and writing features for environmental publications, she now works in community engagement for a marine charity. Recent publications have included fiction for Writerly Magazine and poetry for Ink Sweat and Tears, Candlestick Press and The Lake.

The Piano Man

Put your arms around me but
not like the Piano Man
learning arpeggios
sharps and flats
my primary school skirt grey and pleated
let me show you how
standing behind, arms reaching over, shadowing mine
hands tracing the tops of my own
play it like this play it smooth
what’s that sound
your Dad heading out to the garage?

Your warm breath on my neck but
not like the Piano Man
let me show you how the left hand
plays while the right one rests
on my thigh
look down at the shine
of my patent shoes, squeak one over
the other, Für Elise repeat repeat

Hug me a tight goodbye but
not like the Piano Man
gentle, recommended,
respected in his field
playing better than when I first began
a good girl
hugs for playing well
always playing well.

Let me down gently but
not like the Piano Man
exploding when confronted
Dad, something isn’t right
a phone call, puffing
bellowing
I’m respected in my field
(I told you)
there’s nothing to prove
play with the hem of my cotton
dress, chew the side of my thumb
as a voice protests through the static