“How many zithers?” by Bonnie Proudfoot

Do you want the zither? 
my brother asked, and I say yes, 
because it was mom's, it hung 
on the wall in the living room in Queens, 
with me for my entire childhood. I 
thought I'd try to learn to play, 
but I could not get past the tuning, 
about 40 strings, from twangy to tingly,
tole-painted, gold highlights, matte black,
harp-shaped, small enough to strum 
on a lap. I once asked for help at a local 
music store, but no one there 
had ever played a zither. I wonder 
how many zithers are in Athens County. 
I can't part with it, but I've placed it 
deep into the bedroom closet, behind
the oversized luggage, deeper 
than the clothes that are just too city, 
somehow the word zither reminds me 
of Yiddish, of times I've thought, 
but not deployed, klutz, shemozzle, 
bupkis. I still don't know what to 
hold on to. When I jostle 
through boxes, no one hears 
the zither play but me.

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