Guitar

I place my ear
Against the body
Of my first guitar

The way I have seen
Young women sometimes
Press their cheeks
Against the bone-cage
Bellies of horses

The sound in its body
Is different from this angle

Like notes chasing one another
Round wooden corridors
Rattling the radiators
With cups and spoons
And scratching their names
In the banisters

Or sometimes,
At the brushing of my thumb
Across the aged
Dull strings,

Like the rushing of blood
Through rosewood aortas

#NaPoWriMo 2014 poem number 11

This poem appears in


Wire Walkers

Pass it Along

© Brendan Bonsack
April 2014