About the Dead: Poems

Henry ’s Blues

[20] h e n ry ’ S B LU e S My musician neighbor hollows out a piece of sky with his guitar, until there’s room left for nobody but him— a broken concerto he still lugs around for Angela, his ex-wife, each chord fouling in the attic of his chest. i watched them once, through the window: Angela pinched her little castanets like lotus blossoms, and danced slow twirls around the kitchen table; henry, humming whiskey through a harmonica, blessed her sweet can with a spatula, while night’s ivory sullied outside. That dim memory keeps me listening past dark, listening till there’s no music left, till the only recognizable sound is the canter of railcars passing through the nearby train yard. ...