harmonica 

cool metal to lips. my father's
hands ate the little museum.
neither of us knew how to play
but we took turns singing into
the glass hallways. lesson in sound:
if you have breath, then you have music. 
i need more harmonicas lately.
i confess to a friend, "i find myself
holding my breath." the underwater
life. i buy a box cutter & watch a tutorial
on how to give yourself gills. results
are not guaranteed. visit my parents
& scour for the old harmonica.
i look among the untuned guitars
& the penny whistles & the harmonica
isn't there. i imagine a ghost 
holding our tiny sanctuary
& practicing her old voice. a soft tune
in the night wind. i want to be a bright
voice in a thumb quite. often i will play 
the church & steeple game only there are
no people inside. which is to say 
i have no fingers. only a mouth 
& a latent harmonica. online, i see beloveds 
taking photographs of themselves 
at the feet of the empire. when i find one
i am going to spend a whole day with 
that harmonica in my mouth. 
running in a flourish of notes. screaming
on the front lawn of that landlord
in the city who owns everything 
& it is still not enough. harmonica 
with the word harmony buried inside.
i reach my hands in. everything is 
golden. my father is in the garage
singing in the first time in years.
he is small. fits inside one of the window
of our little holy instrument. 
i am breathing so i guess i am singing.