I would speak of that grief
perfected by the saxophone, the slow
muted trombone, the low, unforgettable cornet.
Theirs were the paths we followed
into the sexual forest, the witch’s spellbound cabin,
the national anthems of longing.
Rhythm is the plod of the human heart,
that aimless walker down deserted streets
at midnight, where a tavern’s neon keeps the pulse.
A horn man licks the blood
in tow, heavy and smooth,
and a song in is in the veins like whiskey.
Does it matter then that men have written
the heartbreaks women make hurt?
that Holiday and Washington sang for one
but to the other? Or is everything equal
is the testimonies of power and loss?
Is the writer the body, the singer the soul?
Now your eyes are closed,
your head leaned back and off to one side.
Living is a slow dance you know
you’re dreaming, but the chill at your neck
is real, the soft slow breathing
of someone you will always love.