Allelujah

Is it not strange 
that sheep’s guts hale souls 
out of men’s bodies? 
—William Shakespeare, “Much Ado About Nothing” 

When the semicircle is complete, 
each pedestal placed aesthetically 
on stage, the girls enter. 
Thirty earnest seraphs 
bend to elaborate benches, 
tilting their harps until 
they lean into one shoulder. 
A shower of sound pours from the curved neck, 
each narrow stream stretched 
to the soundbox like an enclosed 
reception fountain, splashing our faces 
with drops of tickling tones. 
Dilated hands spider the strings, 
plucking ornate banisters of arpeggios, 
circling the staircase of a topless tower. 
Is it any wonder artists 
fasten wings to their backs? 

            When I was young 
            I begged to play the harp, 
            never knowing soft fingertips 
            picked and bleeding like a quilter’s 
            were the price to pay. 
            Hands poised, I could become 
            true elegance—making melodies 
            attached to a pillar 
            from yards of silken glissando. 
            I imagined myself in a gossamer gown, 
            shining hair brushing freckled shoulders, 
            hands worshipping in string-sandwiched prayer.