by Katiebird Yates
the luthier
checks
the obituaries
for fresh flesh
new bones and
taught skin
sound the best
at night
he gathers
his tools
packs his sled
spools of thread
copper strings,
tuning pegs,
a knife to slice
their throats,
a splint to stiffen
their legs
in cemetery silence
he sneaks
sidling and slipping
until he finds
soft soil
his shovel
cracks
the coffin
a drumbeat
on a dead
doorway
he feels
a little
like a robin
when it pulls
the stubborn worm
from its home
he fishes and fights
he flirts and finesses
convincing the corpse
to come to the surface
the luthier undresses
caresses and stretches
sucks and staples
saws and scratches
he bends their bodies
contorts and creases
cuts and plucks
rearranging the pieces
he makes
them
his instruments
guitars
and violins
empty bodies
filled with
musical
life
again
Katiebird Yates is a Syracuse-born swamp witch and newly appointed queen of the toad garden, living in South Florida with her husband and two wild dogs.
Slink Chunk Press 