I SING THE REMEMBERS

The notes sing to me.

A grandma spiritual; warm evenings,

bugs buzzing on yellow lights,

a fever of warmth. Night solid with dark;

the breath of men gasp tired.

I see my youth. A ball of knots.

Tied up in love, broken under the

weight of tears; running eyes, inhaling

life into my soul.

The tracks on my bass; cold lines,

heated with fingers, spilling a story,

pages of pain. Fish jump in my head,

pulling me home. The river knows my name.

I cry the spiritual alive. Pull at its feet.

Knocking it down, wresting like Gabriel.

Forcing the mist of its shape to surrender

the jazz. Touching the groove in me;

I sing the remembers.

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