~

Gazing out the window at a candelabra of green buds,

for some reason known only to the God of my not Understanding,

I remember Liberace and his candelabra 

and his 1950’s TV show, the star flamboyant

in white tie and tails and wavy hair, 

which I guess wasn’t’ real, at least 

according to my grandmother’s movie magazines—

“Liberace’s Wigmaker tells All!”—which she devoured

along with pints of Sealtest ice cream

while she, herself a piano player 

who used to play for the silent movies, watched

Liberace play everything from Litz to ragtime

to her favorite song—“Nola,”

which we had played at Nanny’s funeral

and which the poor organist butchered,

while the candles in the church—candles I used to light

as a Congregationalist version of an altar boy—

flickered and danced and I think 

of a little old man at the nursing home 

where my grandmother spent her last years

who bounced in his chair when Nanny played 

“Nola” for the talent show, yelling,

“Tickle those ivories, Hatty!”

and I light the two candles

by my computer to write this all down

because candles do a really good job 

setting the stage, whether 

it’s for my attempt to write something, 

Or for the congregation to mourn,

or for Liberace to show off

his talent and his dimples, or for spring

leaves to burst forth while a choir

of gold finches sing backup for a cardinal 

whistling the first four notes of Nanny’s favorite song.

~