by Steven O. Young Jr.

 

What sort of fantasy would it be
if I didn’t see myself
               strewn across your lap,
left to the mercy of fingers
                    beginning to callous,
scouring for each song coded between my ribs?

But it’s not the instrument I envy. You
-r tender care and cleaning can’t stop
rust eating through
               secondhand machine
heads and bitter jaws
                 too stubborn to pivot
despite your pleading. Frayed wires unravel you
-r ecstatic amplitude to shrieking feedback.

I want to be what feeds the strings you
-r melodious tune, dancing above the desperate frets
yearning to lick the grace notes silvering you
-r timorous touch. I want to cue
                        vibrations discovering you
-r dulcet tempo, pry jewelry
                    from silence’s taut lips,
music box the universe of you {r singing hand}.
I want to be the plastic plectrum hugging you {r thumbprint},
strumming out the rhythm of you {r canorous whim}.

 

Steven O. Young Jr. is knitted within the Great Lakes’ mitten, where he earned an MA from Oakland University and occasionally slathers soundstages with his body weight’s worth of paint. His latest literary homes include Kind Writers, Chrysalism Press, The Louisville Review, Querencia Press, and PHIL LIT Journal.