Elegy for
Francesca Woodman

Sarah Nix

She left me
frantic scrawl in the white margins
of her photographs:

When I stopped playing the piano,
I began to disappear.

Frame by frame, the pattern
of her dress unzips, revealing
flesh.

I forgot
how to read music.

She left windows
open to a sky like a crumpled page
stuck in the trees.

Once, the notes, as if innate,
went directly to my hands.

Slipped through them,
like silk stockings.
Diaphanous.