African blackwood
hollowed and belled,
worked with rings and keys,
joints of cork anointed,
metal rubbed to a soft gleam,
translucent slice of bamboo
ready to have its sound
coaxed out into the world.
It sang its new song to me,
hummed my fingers into
mellow woodwind dances,
menuettos and gavottes,
allegro vivace, the Mozart concerto,
reward of lessons well learned.
But now, your vibrato pulses me
right off the page,
swings me out
on the dance hall stage,
sassing the brass,
double-tongue like crazy,
crackle out of a living room Zenith
on Saturday night.
Wail me a New Orleans dirge
that moans like an old field holler
all the way to the cemetery,
then ragtimes it back to town,
slides into “Sugar Foot Strut”,
hot licks and Creole spice.
Trade licorice for gold:
hit those notes cleaner than any cornet,
then slide them, blue and dirty,
anywhere they want to go.
I taste your mouthpiece and blow,
reed vibrates sweet.
Honey drips out of you,
my licorice stick,
my ebony beauty,
my lost voice.
