Author: dig

Tamora’s baby came out Black, you say? Damn. The more
I hear of Aaron the Moor, the more I think: don’t that be jazz?

A note above ~ A note below ~ The note between ~
The tonic ~ Enclosed ~ Pivoted up ~ Octave ~ That be jazz.

Oh, if the bard could be Black! Her stride would be royal, jeweled toes?…?
your ideas must speak. Aaron and more. Till’s name still rises! That be jazz.

Such Sweet Thunder, A. Van Jordan

up into the silence the green
silence with a white earth in it

you will (kiss me) go

out into the morning the young
mourning with a young world in it

(kiss me) you will go

on into the sunlight the fine
sunlight with a firm day in it

you will go (kiss me

down into your memory and
a memory and memory

i) kiss me (will go)

ee cummings

But on this day
we sit in that room and play cards together
while I slip my papers in the half-moon tray
and take a number, wait for someone
behind the bulletproof glass to say

take another. And I feel only love.
I don’t remember the fear of that year,
or the fear of the years that hover
before and after. I remember
the windowless room and, outside,

Beforetimes, Margot Kahn

illusions were frail and had to be kept intact.

houses that included soil and rosebushes

the atmosphere is one of displacement, of erroneous celebration.

Good Girl, Aria Aber

Mark Hewitt.