Because we've gotten so many excellent submissions that took Erin Belieu's Hideous Chair and ran with it, we're running another awesome homage to it, which we've taken to thinking of as the proverbial patron saint of this enterprise. Have at:
On a Guitar (after Erin Belieu)
Out of shape,
Hangs like from a tiny teal thread,
As though the threat of falling did not concern
The back is mysteriously missing,
As devastating to this instrument as if
You were to have your tongue ripped out
Or your brain fevered,
Or any other of the dozen ways a person can be made mute.
A body warped by the seasons.
Cheap blackened strings
That when forced to sing merely mumble against the draft.
You weren’t born out of some passionate reenaction
Of an insane performance, or even an ironic reenaction.
Innate flaws, your cracks run straight in the exact way that they shouldn’t.
Your back dropped out and your face caved in.
Those strings hold tension like they used to,
Like they should.
The bridge pulls away in order that they do.
Altogether looking like a collapse frozen to an instant.
Don't forget to send us your poems for publication on this here blog: firstname.lastname@example.org.