Gabriella Brand

This poem appeared in Perigee magazine back in 2010.

Appoggiatura: Thomas

Even as a child,
he played around with excess,
his little heart too big for his body.

At school he brought Valentines for everyone,
convinced that no one should be without a friend.
He stuffed the cardboard mailbox in the back of the classroom
until it broke.  The teacher kept him in at recess.

Some thought he pushed the limits, 
not believing
that a six year old can grasp 
so much life with two hands and hold on.

On Halloween, he was the last one home, 
his mask askew,
indifferent to the candy,
delighted to have walked so far and so long,
the only child in the neighborhood
to have seen the moon come up behind the Fire House.

At night, he gathered piles of toy animals
on the quilt,
always making room for 
one more tattered piglet with no tail
who needed the caring ark of
his bed.


He tried everything, but fell in love with song.
When he took up the piano, 
he embraced it
not just with fingers
but with torso and tummy,
his ankles finding rhythm 
where the dull and wizened music faculty
would have never thought to look.

“Hold yourself still, Thomas!” they’d bark.
But he couldn’t and they knew it,
a toccata bursting from him.
He was like a child giggling 
with a mouthful of milk.


Now, as an adult,
he never fails to seek bounty in the daily fugue.
Whether it be love or work,
his eye goes to the grace notes.

Visiting the stricken grandfather,
he loads the hospital tray with 
chocolate éclairs and unabashedly sings
the old man’s favorite tunes,
even while the fussy nurses plead for 
quiet.