Four Accidentals Poem by Matt Mullins

First, you die. Then I choose the place and time
to brush away the dry leaves, rolling aside
the note-heads of pill-bugs and curled centipede clefs
testing the edge of your guitar with the calloused
fingertips that will send the blade of its body down.

You once told me that a song could not exist unless
each note carried an acceptance of its own passing
in the same way that expectation serves the bridge's promise
of return. I put my ear to the box at hand, listening
for those accidentals telling me the difference

In the sounds of your burial: the scraped song
of a cheap pine box, your descending scale of soon
to be bones, your dreadnaught, sprung from its nail
instrumental and not mine to understand.

Two eyes spring open in the back
of my head: one red eye to guide me
toward the stage's edge one blue eye
for keeping time.