From the back row, no one can see
that the flute player’s white oxford shirt
is mis-buttoned. His dirty blonde hair
falls into his eyes. He tosses it back
with a flick of his head, picks up his instrument
and focuses his attention on the conductor.
With a lurch, the sixth-grade band launches
into the last section of Beethoven’s 9th,
and the familiar tune of Ode to Joy
brightens the dim auditorium.
The conductor keeps perfect time,
and the students, though stilted,
follow her rhythm. I think of Vienna,
1824, in the Theatre am Karntnertor,
when Beethoven himself stood on stage
at the end of his career to direct the premiere,
his first time on stage in twelve years.
Though he could not hear the symphony, he furiously
waved his arms in tempo, moving his body
as if to play all the instruments at once,
as if he could be every voice in the chorus.
And when it was done, the great composer
went on, still conducting, not knowing
it was over until the contralto soloist moved to him
and turned him to face the ovation.
With the greatest respect, and knowing
that applause could not reach him,
the audience members raised their hands and hats
and threw white handkerchiefs into the air,
then rose five times to their feet.
When the sixth grade band director
lowers her arms, the young musicians stop with her.
They rise and bow, and the audience claps
and some of the parents whoop.
And the students bow again, and again,
though the clapping is done.
They do not yet know how to carry pride
in their awkward bodies, and they stumble
and list off the stage.
The flute player’s black pants are too short
for his long thin legs. He is growing in ways
neither he nor his mother can understand.
There she is, weeping in the back row,
in her ears, in her heart, a song of joy.