Our Babies

This morning, I ate my piano etude.
As I practiced, notes dropped off the page
suspended in air by their strings,
the ringing of their own black bells
falling into me.
My selfish tongue lapped up each
e flat in ecstasy and Schumann
watched from above,
tasted his melodies too,
pretended it was the first time.
Tonight, notes pore out from
skin in rainbow waves.
Musical infections reproduce into
symphonies one, three, five,
out of my fingers in black f sharps
white c harmony, until
I give birth right there on the stage
crescendo allegro coda
silence broken by applause--
greedy hands of the modern music lover.