Ellen Goldstein: Two Poems

The Stranger | The Instrument Room

The Stranger

She lived so close to the outdoor café
that sparrows begged at her window,
and she fed them her breakfast, crumb
by crumb without noticing
she hadn't eaten. For a while
she worked at the café, but the dishes
clashed too loudly in the sink,
and the smell of grease followed her
like a stranger. She kept looking
behind her, dropping cups, unable to shake
the feeling that the city was watching her
with small unblinking eyes.

The Instrument Room

Boxed in airless glass, instruments ache
to be taken, touched — their wood warmed,

their strings pinned to dark necks
by quivering fingers that press and slide

down the silver-scored fingerboard.
Horsehair whispers after fingers,

tugging tautness from the bridge, fine-grained
frames stretch and launch the melody,

varnished and amber-hued, soaring
over the range of human voices,

pushing into the carpeted hush.
Centuries of collecting stillness

the museum has never heard such noise.

Poet's Biography:

Ellen Goldstein's poetry has appeared in The Formalist, The Mid-American Review, StorySouth, and Poetry Southeast. She lives in Beverly Massachusetts.