Heather June Gibbons

His fingers plinked broke
strings on the bridge, lit
brushfires in an elbow crease

shhh, it was like being alone
how come notes hung so
heavy in his hand that he picked

up the pieces of his face, hit
a low hiss of rain and carved—
mutter-mutter—a pang

rubbed into the unbearable
twoness of three, I mean
of one, how come broke

stereo breaks into mono
with the low amp hiss of
a house built of matchsticks

and lit, why does melody so
scraped break how his face did
when a door slammed and

the edges began to water—
mutter-mutter— in memory
a pang, rings with no fingers

loneliest thing I ever heard was
a song long as a splintered
prime number, it just hung there

like smoke hangs
        in a room, threading