Nanna’s accordion
is gathering dust
on a plywood floor
at the top of the stairs.
She got it in ’41,
back when she was just
a child, before the war.
Kids themselves, her heirs
can’t bear its squawking spirit,
its raw asthmatic
rasp, or its wheezing
sick-room breath.
They imagine they hear it,
even from the attic;
a sound once pleasing,
now too much like death.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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