Vol 1 No 1 2007
Accidental Poetry Written by My Father
As She Lay in Her Bathtub, Holding a Flute of Wine
Autumn at the End of The Third Man
Cleaning Kill in the Kitchen at Midnight, Father Made a Good Point
Accidental Poetry Written by My Father
The fretboard
that trellises the guitar
guides fingers up and along its length
like roses.
But not the violin,
Father stresses. The violin is fretless—
strings climb
its smooth neck like arteries
bearing bursts of blood up to a thought.
A violinist’s fingers,
Father stresses, must therefore train
to pursue, like medics, the jump of a pulse.
Jason Guriel