by James Miller
I forget the words
to the popular song.
I think it was first recorded
in 1937.
The bridge
is said to be full of joy.
A few copies remain.
Perfect 78s
temp-controlled
in the archive closet.
The strings ask
my children to speak.
It is an opportunity
for them to choose nothing.
Every morning they listen
and choose nothing.
Offer slices
from their thumbs
instead.
Lay out flesh
freely
on the table.
Cover the table
with that curling.
They tell me
these
are shavings
from the great tree.
::
James Miller is a native of the Texas Gulf Coast, now settled in Oklahoma City. His work has appeared in Best Small Fictions (2021), Hopkins Review, San Pedro River Review, Heavy Feather Review, Good River Review, Bending Genres, The Shore, The Ilanot Review, The Atlanta Review, and elsewhere. Website: jamesmillerpoetry.com.
Image: Austin Loveing
ID: a hand over a record player.
Psaltery & Lyre 