She didn't care much
about the ruined stuffing
of the dead animal
Just the music box
exposed at its heart
like a cypher
of brass-colored keys
plinking away at itself

--a player piano* in someone's basement
to impress, entertain
less affluent
cocktail friends

Never took much
to sweep her away--

like the insides
of a music
box
resisting
curious fingers
to speed it up
or slow it down
learning how
to force
its secret
into her hand

Marveled when it skipped
at the broken pins
a minute glitch
finds holes in tune

as roll uncoils
to spring the ditty

“This girl has mechanic's ability”

Forcing mechanisms
noticing holes that catch at music
slowing  
slowing to sadden the song

Winding it up to hear  
again--
happy

Tears when it stopped

--the question
of why?
of its own accord

Thou, thou poor sheep of the Lord,
Now that thou art still as a stone,
And to none thou canst not say a word,
To friends of thine all but forlon
As wilted marigold upon a grave,
With eyes melting with saddest tears
Galloping down like as a lonely wave
Doth rove from shores to shores,
May thee know wherever thee wander,
Thy ineffably mellifluous melodies
To our ears shalt always be a wonder,
Pleasantly sweet as of early songbirds
Till by celestial shores we'll meet again,
And there we'll shed a tear nevermore;
For there's no sorrow nor pain
But rivers of mirth forevemore.

I call upon the wind to steel you within its breeze
I call upon the angels to help you feel at ease

I call upon God to let you be released
I call upon your soul to let you rest in peace

cowgirls don‘t ride sidesaddle
unless they completely skedaddle
but even then, since their birth,
they hold on with great mirth
to that wonderful horn on their saddle