(“The
important thing is faith—the kind of faith that works through love.”
Galatians 5:6b)
As if I did not know the
timbre of
my own guitar
I laid it on its side facing the window
and hoped the sun would revive it again.
And the saxophone squeaked through the speakers.
I snuck up on the day with
clouded clarity,
the wood fairies danced outside my
field of vision.
But closer in I could see the air,
the floaters and astronauts never obscuring
my view.
My heart beat against my lungs,
and pain wrapped its hot hands around my head,
but I still heard, through the auxiliary sounds,
the afternoon approaching
like those days in May when we
went driving through the hills with the
Moody Blues
on the radio.
With calloused fingers, swollen knuckles,
and a voice crackling like a paper bag,
I threatened to sing the solitary away.
Someone once pasted
get well cards
all over my bedroom wall. Someone
once washed my feet who I never had
met before.
Someone once sat on the edge of my couch
with tears to match my own.
Someone drove across the state to loan me
an extra breath or two.
Though I spend nearly every day alone
I carry the kindnesses in my body like
memories of poppy fields and warm Spring days.
Today I may play my guitar again.
