electronic organ

when the aunts sell the house 
i want their electronic organ.
a heart or a lung. preferably 
the one from the living room. i tape
the sheet music no one has ever
played to the walls. i make it talk. 
you & me, both quarter notes
dangling from the ceiling where
there used to be a light fixture.
on holidays we would sit
together on the piano bench &
ask her questions. how old were
you when Pearl Harbor happened?
sitting-on-the-bed years old.
the smell of gun powder in the sink.
she answered with the foot pedals:
the big one in the back is volume--
tilting deeper into the vocal chords
of a mechanical word. i want that
organ. i haven't thought about 
transportation, but i assume the 
ghosts will be inclined to move it,
one less thing for them to deal with.
i'll ring the door bells of their
picture frames. a spare kidney?
a liver? the skin is, as we know,
the largest organ. eight keys 
on the bottom row don't make
a sound because they're playing
somewhere else. maybe the attic,
maybe just the light above
the kitchen sink. the faucet drips.
where will i put it?
i guess next to my bed. i wouldn't
want the organ getting lonely, waking
up in the middle of the night
in a far off city & sobbing for 
it's mother. i'll get up 
with her & put my warm
skin on her body. i'll hum
what's left of church in me.
i'll tell her about where
i was when Pearl Harbor happened.
an olive in the back 
of the fridge. bombs in the
sink. the faucet leaking.
pushing the volume away--
a voice getting farther. distant now.
just one lung.