Untuned

Sylvie Harrington '26

Guitar, its skin scarred with paperclip cuts, 

that hole of soft darkness in the center beckoning warmth like a nest. 

Birds sing there, ringing out their tunes from the hollow. 

They grow in volume, their sweetness a crescendo. 

Stoic white daylight invades this room and I hear 

Folsom Prison Blues, smell cream chipped beef and coffee.

Guitar, its long dark neck etched with flaxen gold bands, shining 

bangles on someone’s tan arm. Hair flips and spins, to whoever wants to hear- You’re just another picture to burn!

Now I burrow my hair against the satin blue sofa and I think 

I understand what it’s like to yearn. 

There’s moments, fleeting, coated in yellowy morning sunlight and felt by bare feet, that lie tucked below this glossy hardwood. 

Guitar, whispering. No, screaming. The skeleton of smiles and dance, it

hangs in its case, still as an icicle, calling to me with its

untuned voice.