to any and all spirits who sustain us

 

   Blue Guitar 

a favourite of mine – I loved conceiving it love repeating it like children  I hope youll enjoy

her blue guitar leans in the corner

against the stereo speaker

where she placed it

she liked  as she used to tell him in bed after they made love how invisible fingers 

radiating from the speaker held it  stroked its strings  played impossible chords  

the guitar sounded so different

shed never be able to recreate that music  imagine or remember it 

she said often the music was in accord to the music hed play during their lazy afternoons together  his imperfect scratched 78s  the keenly-guarded refined 33 1/3s  and those raucous 45s

she loved the echoes in her guitar its reverberations slipping like snakes in its chamber

she loved how the wind moving through the house visited it too

those days when she complained it was too cold and why did he have to have the house open

and on those days when the house was too hot

and the overhead fanblades were desperate to have their go at it

and the days since

when she hadnt been there to complain

but he would imagine she did

imagine all the qualities of her voice  its timbre and tone

when she was elated 

or distraught

when she was dreamy and contemplative

or singing with her eyes closed

all her persons he loved  and didnt  that she shared with him every moment they improbably had

without thought hesitation  or reservation

they  figuring improbably  that they would always have

stretched across the wide warm gulf of their living together

and now the sound hole of her guitar seemed far far larger   for each and every day they didnt have

he was jealous of her guitar

her fingerprints her tentarch or were they whorls invisibly etched onto its strings

its frets and tuning keys

                           her oils and scent on it

they were gone from him

                           his midnight showers eroded them from his skin its streams of water deafening his ears so he couldnt hear his crying or feel his hot tears running down his face

deafening him

a reason he fingered

because he could no longer hear her

hear her voices

feel her touch

blue

      her blue guitar

leaning dusty at the speaker

near the albums and jackets and paper slips brittlely ageing  yellowing without the kiss of sunlight

as he

without her kisses

warm touch

reviving strokes

   blue

  

1502,  CloverSunday,  1  6. 23

again 1350,  Monday -- Christmas,  25  12. 23