She was a barefoot singer
Her toes sliding
through the fine, cool earth
It was how she drew
from the spring of nature
She never could hit that high C
while wearing shoes
Their soles are blacker than ours
she used to say
Those ugly boots are cutting you off
she used to tell me
You'll never hit a high C

She sang and I played
I wore my shoes
And I let my hair grow long
My savage war paint
Smeared across my chest
under my shirt
Unknown to everyone but me
And her, she saw it too

We only played outside
The earth on her soles
The wind in my hair
The tortured animus of song
How those nights conspired against us
The natural warmth of audience and music
Our blighted bond, tenuous at best
Soared strong on those nights
A wind over the mountains
A wind that promised rain

Her voice was fragile
But also eerie in its gravitas
It commanded the respect
of the dead soldiers and sailors that came out for us
It made her younger
It declawed and dulled her fangs
I would sometimes cry
when she hit that high C

On our very last number
On the very last page
The fire would kick up
and my fingers would dance
And we both believed in the other
She in her naked earth
Me with my jaguar soul
Oh, how those nights
conspired against us