b l u e
f a n t a s y
It
is a blue night—
the crickets are my
metronome, soft cries
under my window.
They accompany a blue fantasy.
The sweat on my keyboard is sweet.
I like the taste—it is pure summer
spicy and dark
and although they aren't
really there
the blue lotuses are
fragrant in my room
smooth petals caught in
between the ebony and the white
a chromatic all on their
own.
I call you, beloved—it is like old times, and I'm
down to a midnight bra in
the wet heat,
"It's been awhile,
we have to meet."
You protest. But because this is my fantasy
I
intoxicate you. Persuade you. Cajole you.
Soon,
Your work disintegrates into nothingness.
You will take your time and so will I—
As I finger the notes of the Blue Fantasy,
the grace notes are caught up in luminance.
Skin shimmering from a summer wax,
I pause. Look out the window. A man once told me,
"When there is love in your music,
it renders your
listener a slave to your fingers."
I
practice my enslavement, over and over again.
The night is young and so am I—
notes cram themselves through
the window grates
they fly—
making their exodus into
the night sky.
I think of nights in
watching the
and you are kissing me, too
it is long, deep,
soft—like
that lone
appoggiatura from the Cotton Club
yearning to find a place in our
embrace.
We are wound too tightly together—yes,
that first kiss was a
rhapsody, too
And this second is mine—to you.
I hear you on your way—even the crickets are
anticipating your arrival;
they disrupt my smooth
metronome.
I greet you, yes.
Saturated with sweet labor
I am surprisingly attuned to your heat,
You
arrive through the door, and
fingering the traces of lace
still clung to my body,
I see you wondering, why are they still there?
But you cannot just stand and stare,
I drag you into my room. I make you my only ear.
I bind you to the notes of the
Blue Fantasy.
The notes are so lovely I cry,
The tears mingle with the sweat and love on my fingers
as they play the piece.
When the music dies,
I make you my Blue Fantasy.