My King

In response to Wallace Steven’s “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”:

My King

I would not fall asleep until it sang me to sleep

a small child wailing in her crib until the moment

its sonorous voice reached her ears

It gave me my first hickey

it hurt a lot

but I was proud

it meant I was working hard

It frustrated me – how were my fingers

supposed to do that thing?

When I did it it wailed – no sweet moaning here.

The sound it made

with just the right amount of pressure

the perfect tension in the rubbing

( who knew wood, horsehair and cat guts could do that?)

My fingers don’t feel pain –

they don’t feel anything.

So much pressing in the same spot –

I once touched a hot frying pan

and didn’t even realize my fingers were scorched.

The sweet sounds it makes

(now that I’ve fully mastered myself) –

the frustration and the pain were worth it.

Now I can grab it

wrestle with it

make it say “uncle”

but when it’s all over

I still have to bow to my king/