By Emily Chang
The air conditioning in this car is broken,
but it doesn’t matter so much. Not when
the CD player is on. This one is of a horn ensemble,
and we bought the disc at one of their concerts, years ago.
I was little then, anxious, and I hated,
hated the churning dissonances, the burning
hisses of percussion. But now,
the rapid march of notes seems to scrub
at my insides, clean me free, and whipping
wind flicks my dissonance away.
To hang by the thread of a major seventh, and watch
the world from above,
above the sun-baked car, above
the anxieties that once burned
inside me — it is freeing
to watch them wash
out of me, if only
for the few minutes
that the piece lasts.
The peace lasts. I sit back,
and let eighth notes crest
over me, like waves
on a summer’s day.
Emily Chang lives and writes on Long Island, New York. She enjoys quiet car rides, Mahler symphonies, watching clouds, and playing music. She is awake half of the time she is not asleep.
Hot Pot Magazine 