At the House of Blues by Taylor Gianfrancisco

At the House of Blues

In a prayer,

I close my eyes, wishing on your low
voice that the stage lights will forget
their names and douse us with a religious

high in the mosh pit. That the broken
wings of the rafter beams above us will turn
into many blue heavens. But I can only listen

to your words: This tiny voice in my head starts
to say, you’re safe, child, you are safe.
Suddenly,
this venue turns into little dots of stars asking

for your tales of heartache. And you pine
after your words, tripping over them until they spill
all over the audience. I pick them up, drown them

in beer until the glitter on our tongues dies
and I don’t remember why I’m here. I don’t know
anything but my name. I wish on the dimming,

dusky lights right as the guitar purrs its final note.

by Taylor Gianfrancisco

Editor’s Note: Anyone who’s ever sat in the dark audience of a blues club will recognize the surreal narrative that drive this poem towards the final line.

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