until he got up again.

How that one time he got hit so hard, a vein broke

in his left eye

and it stayed bloodred for days and days.

How come they can’t just fix him? I say again,

but softer this time.

All those times he got knocked down

and knocked out, my daddy kept getting up

but maybe some part of him

stayed on the ground.

Playing Something Pretty

My daddy got me a guitar when I was seven. A six-string.

Acoustic.

I always wanted to play, he said.

I asked him how come he didn’t.

No money for lessons.

And the only instrument in our house when I was a kid

was a broke-down banjo that once upon a time

belonged to some distant relative.

It only had one string on it.

I’d plink at it but it never made any real kinda sound.

Just plink, plink, plink.

But I wanted drums, Daddy.

My daddy took me over to the window. See that beautiful yard?

I looked out at our yard, the grass sloping down

into a line of trees

that hid our pool and climbing bars and the swings

Daddy had someone design for me.

Yeah, I said. I see it.

Then Daddy turned me around. See all of this house?

I nodded again, looking at the way the marble stairs

led up to all the bedrooms and the floor above

that my dad always called the ballroom

because a long time ago

people used it for dancing.

Now we have a half-court up there

for indoor hoops in the wintertime.

What’s the house and the yard and the pool

got to do with a guitar?

Sometimes, my daddy said,

a parent’s going to give you something

they wished they had when they were kids.

He took the guitar from me, plucked at it and smiled.

Now you try it.

I strummed it, and the sound that filled up the living room

was so soft and clear, I knew I was gonna love it forever.

Even though I was still mad about the drums.

You’re a natural, my daddy said.

Then I strummed it again, moved my fingers along the frets.

Back then I didn’t know they were called frets,

didn’t know how to tighten the strings to adjust the sound.

Didn’t know the difference between

picking and strumming.

Didn’t know the difference between

a soundboard and a saddle,

an electric and an acoustic guitar.

But I know now.

And in the late afternoon when my daddy sinks into his chair,

asks me to play something pretty, play something soft,

I do.

E String

The sweetest sound comes

after the string breaks

and after you complain cuz the string broke.

Then you have to find the right one,

an E-1st string still in its wrapping

at the bottom of your drawer

or in your guitar case, ready and waiting.