...and when I finally showed up
and went into my mother's last room in the ICU
as the fluids were still clotting in their tubing
and the machinery of life was silent,
the necrosis lingered.
Her knitting was sitting to one side
with many loose ends
unresolved.

You’ve changed, in a way that I know you don’t even recognize yourself. I know, because when you’re alone you frown at the floor and your face is absolutely heartbreaking but then she comes around and you put the face away and smile again. I could be delirious, you could just be happy, but are we really ever happy with something we cheated to get? Maybe you don’t see it that way, and you’re the happiest person in the world, but if you really are, then explain that face to me? I’ve only seen that face after your cousin died, when you were questioning God and why everyone was leaving your life. You look lost, but then again you look like a stranger, and I know of nothing in your life anymore, except these gut feelings that something isn’t okay. Is your mom okay? Is your grandmother healthy? Have you thought about suicide? Is she helping you pass with good grades? Is she funny? You deserve endless laughter. You’re changing, but maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s just because I’m on the outside. Somewhere I’m not used to being, and somewhere I wish I wasn’t. Maybe it’s because you said we’d still be friends and you still feel something, and maybe it’s because hope is dangerous. Because after I’d hoped that we’d be better and that you had the repressed feelings that I was experiencing out loud, and then you stopped talking to me, I lost everything. Now, don’t go thinking you are my everything, because you aren’t, but the concept was never something I hated. Back to why I’m writing this, does she have a soul like I do? Because I’d hate to know you’re being handled by someone who doesn’t have a deep soul, and sees the universe when they close their eyes. Are your car rides the same? Do you try to do the same things with them? Is she still pregnant? Isn’t she the good girl? Isn’t that why she’s easier to love and bring home to mom? Honestly, how is your mom? Sigh, I guess it’s okay. Just be careful…you can only change yourself so much before it becomes ******.

-g.e.s.

'What shall we talk about today?'

Spin, spin, spin the conversation
into loops and recapitulations.
Cassettes were my sustenance but
a vinyl record spins on the turntable.
Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
Rests, then
    block chords, then
          swing-swung rhythm.
Then,
unexpected concords.

Where did those blue notes come from?
And colour our red, some supposed red, into
purple?
But jazz has always been unpredictable.

I grew up on the clarity and
gravity
of soft pink time;
pearl-notes to the steady, steady,
steady
beat of a metronome.
But now,
                now?
Syncopation.
My  
      beat
against your
                beat
and we make a violently violet
bossa nova.

Suddenly the classically trained flautist
has time-travelled to her very first lesson.
Because no sound flutters out of the mouthpiece
and her fingers can't keep up.
Swing-swung
            syncopation
and she doesn't know to breathe anymore.
Where did those blue notes come from?

Silence.
Have we reached the final double bar?
The cadence is imperfect,
                                             unresolved.
Listen, a cold snap of instant jazz
knocked us over.
Arms clasped, teeth chat-chat-
                                              chattering.
1,
     2,
3 -
A not-quite waltz.
But jazz has always been unpredictable.

Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
I think we know what it is but can't figure it out.
And so Cole Porter and Billie Holiday save us
from
     fading out.

'Let's do it, let's fall in-"

I don't want this song to be over.
I don't even know what it's called
but
don't let it end, don't let it,
don't
        don't
don't.

I can't cook but I think
I can make  
                   instant jazz.
And you,
        and you...
You'll write dizzy like
a Coltrane solo.
As you do.
And I'll lay down my flute,
struggle out of my red minuet and
                                               wonder:
Where did those blue notes come from?

But jazz has always been unpredictable.

'What shall we talk about now?'