I listen to Schumann
wondering how Clara felt
screwing Brahms
behind Robert's back.

Did she dream
of pulling her fingers
through Brahms' blonde hair
as she sat down to breakfast
spreading jam on black bread?

Robert glowers.
Songs glitter in Clara's brain
like bees in a box
brimming over
spilling onto the sun washed table.
Even the curtains tremble
with deceit.

Her legs shift nervously
under her morning dress
fingers tap
against a milky tea cut.
"Clara, stop tapping."

"I would eat your music like a peach
dear Robert
and wear the stone in my button shoe
in only you would let me be."

Children hover in the nursery
voices tinny and chirping.
Robert's eyes twitch
like lizard eyes
his pallor green
as the Rhine.

"I would give you my songs
and never tell
if only you would go."