Yellow Submarine

Yellow Submarine


My brother played guitar. If there was a storm,
or Mom and Dad were fighting, or if I was just down,
he would break out his old guitar and play.
He always started by saying he was sorry it sounded bad
because he needed new strings. Then he would play
"Yellow Submarine." I think it was the only song he knew.
I didn’t even know it was by the Beatles back
then.

When I was twelve, my brother packed up his rusty
stringed guitar and went north to Massachusetts
on a scholarship. In January, he loaded up his
car with three friends and tried to drive across Lake Erie,
when the ice was just thick enough to look like
it would hold them.

The coroner found pot in my brother's pocket.
This explained everything to the authorities
and even to my parents. My brother and his buddies were
hopped up on drugs and tried to drive across Lake Erie.

And they made it halfway before the ice broke.
It must’ve sounded like a whale song.
The cold muffling of the wind,
the frozen waters still moving beneath them,
slightly at first, then opening up with that beautiful roar
like the voice of an angel, then the tilting as the car
started to slide.
When they dredged the car out, all the doors were closed
and the windows up. He was sealed up tight.
His guitar was still in his dorm room. I have it.
I bought new strings for it, but I never play it.
It doesn't sound right

C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on Foliate Oak, a PDF/Adobe file.