There's a soft rumbling in the belly of your guitar
reminds me of just how small my hands are--
gentle ends of my finger tips
match the humming inside my lips--
But you'll condescend now with structured chords
you all with your betwitching stringed gourds
I fumble and shake and forget my place
Get lost in the black hole of memory's embrace--
reminds me of how small my hands were
and so the spotlight I would always defer
gentle ache in the belly of my guitar
my true self trapped inside the mason jar.
Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
-
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across...
Poets United Contributor
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