I Am a Harp Spring | Cassandra Whitaker

Among the tall ladies look for me 

in the pronounced shoulder, the body 

a bit wider, but sure and newly strung

with silver and resonating 

with every vibration. A passing brush

sends a hum all along the wavelength

of me, all the way to its end

and all the way across

the arch, the string newly strung

and plucked, its vibrating hum

as bright as the inside of a star if a star 

could be a home and a home 

could be traveling along the wavelength

of a note, along the wavelength where I am

looking back to me behind, the now

already slipping into a hum 

as soon as it’s struck, a note silvered 

and sung. I am bright inside a star 

if a star could be a home 

inside the body that is me 

being plucked, each note lingering hello 

and hello and hello.  I have answered.

Cassandra Whitaker (they/them) is a writer from rural Virginia. Their work has been published in or is forthcoming in Foglifter, Barrelhouse, Fourteen Hills, Kitchen Table Quarterly, The Little Patuxent Review, Evergreen Review, & The Comstock Review. They are a member of the National Book Critics Circle.