My

My lamp sits on the bookshelf.
I say “my” because I made it
from an old soprano saxophone
and chunks of wood, glued and sanded
with the help of my 5th-grade shop teacher.

It has traveled with me on every move.
The tall instrument climbs
up to the hand-screwed fixture
and switch;
singing of musical aspirations
I never followed;
the keys so old that they rust
and they stick.

Who played that sax
before Mr. Smith,
the band leader,
handed it to me
from the archives?

Who molded the brass with fire?
What earth gave birth to the metals?
Whose hands were on the saw in the lumber yard?
Upon the axe on the tree,
whose roots delved into the ground freely?

And what of the shade,
and the bulb,
in which I had no part,
but for a few careless dollars?

And what of the man
sitting beneath its glow
reading from an iPad?

Between us, we trade the casual word
“my”
every few minutes.
Always with a smile,
and a loving glance.

-Lizzy Fox

Aug. 2013