To the Girl Who Stole My Gui­tar

Prairie Fire - - GERALD ARTHUR MOORE -

My para­noid neigh­bour’s video record­ing is grainy, but I can see your short white coat, blonde hair, shoul­der-check­ing-ner­vous­ness. You are hold­ing my sun­burst Lar­rivee gui­tar.

Even from this dis­tance, across the furry grey street, the pix­i­lated lawn that is mostly dan­de­lion, you are stand­ing there, keep­ing look­out for your boyfriend or pimp, as he loads my pil­low cases with bot­tles of scotch.

My neigh­bour’s lawn is per­fect—he stran­gles each new weed or plucks them by the root, and tosses them on the black­top to ex­pire like a fish out of wa­ter.

He’s dis­gusted by my in­dif­fer­ence to dan­de­lions and my care­less­ness that leaves doors un­locked, or the gui­tar by the win­dow. I see the yel­low fiery bursts against the lawn as truth.

When they seed, I ad­mire the float­ing para­troop­ers that so bravely com­mit them­selves to the wind.

The neigh­bour doesn’t see the beauty in you ei­ther, he only sees thief, pros­ti­tute, junkie.

He laughs that you ap­pear to have a black half-moon smil­ing and swelling on your cheek, from where you’ve been punched.

I can see a lot in these fif­teen sec­onds of dis­tant footage, be­fore you meet your ac­com­plice and walk down my drive­way. You don’t play gui­tar, for ex­am­ple, the way you awk­wardly hold it. My neigh­bour doesn’t see, yours is a his­tory of bruises; nor does he see that you are a soft spo­ken poem, a float­ing para­sol in search of a whis­per land­ing to fer­tile soil.

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