Lute
Look at the shape of it – like a teardrop,
the depth, the back that’s called a shell,
the strings that are made of sheep’s gut.
Close cousin to the guitar, the lute
has a lighter sound. Once upon a time
it was the instrument; even the queen
had one, could play it. What if my father
had owned one, could play it, had brought it
to his high school English class, held it,
leaning against his desk like a rock star,
explained how it was hand-crafted
way over 400 years ago in France?
What if some tough kid had asked,
Is that what guitars looked like
in the olden days, and my father
had answered yes, and teased a pop tune
out of the sheep gut strings, and the kids
had thumped their desks and sung along?
Would we have stayed on another year?
Avoided the next new school, the next house,
the next neighbours, no friends? Instead
he tells a story of the lute player’s daughter
who preferred playing a tin pipe she’d bought
for tuppence in the market, said how she liked
music made of breath, not formed from fingers,
and the tough kid blew a raspberry, and my father
groaned, and the bell rang for lunch.