Across the Imaginary Divide

Across the Imaginary Divide

Molly Davidson
 
Because I don’t know
how to play banjo,
 
I start an email.
But I don’t know what
 
happened to your old
account now that you’re
 
gone. Your banjo’s still
in the corner from
 
when you delivered
it and said, yours for
 
trying, probably as long
as you wish. You die
 
fourteen months later.
I didn’t want to
 
keep it that long. I
learn things slowly and
 
never thought to ask,
how you play like Fleck,
 
how you clean the frets,
if you know you are
 
dying. You are still
in the absence of
 
the quiet banjo
whose strings don’t know my
 
fingers, only yours.
Mine, hovering here.
 
 
 
 

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