prose & poetry by chia

birthday sonata

The lady who sold me wineglasses
left a note on my desk.
With keen, bold letters

A room upstairs; rather chilly
It is made up of wood, sheer sunlight
slipping through the slit of the curtain
A room it was, alright. Full of windows it was, alright.

The girl stood in the middle, absorbed in light.
The room, filled with books.
I see the phantom of Virginia Woolf running around.
Coffee stains on pieces of paper,
there were.

And so the birthday girl started speaking in a
pleasant voice and subtle tone.
A gentle soul and a sound mind, too.
At 4 p.m. we talked about literature,
the complexities and subtle things.
We talked about people and enemies and the
china porcelain I used to love.

"But it's a really great porcelain," I said.
"Then smash the porcelain," spoke the birthday girl.

We talked over tea.
At 7 p.m. we set the table. The celebration
due in thirty minutes.
Just then, while the clinking of porcelain filled the air,
the piano started playing in the living room.

"They must be here."
Meanwhile, the sonata played on.