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Criss Cross
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Sunday, 11 December 2005 14:12 |
ruby, my dear
for estelle marie payno
a red candle
burning in a red
glass on a red tablecloth
in a dark corner
of a darkened nightclub,
a cigarette
burning in a red
plastic ashtray, a chesterfield
king
with lipstick red
on the end
& the smoke
from the cigarette in her eyes,
her hair is black satin
against skin of chocolate brown
or golden cream, or any of the million
gorgeous hues of american women
of african descent, purest black
to highest yellow
& every imaginable shade
in between, this is a song
to the woman in the red dress,
erzulie, or ruby
my dear
as monk would have her
pinned against the keyboard,
lush in the hips & thighs,
lush of lips & breasts,
the most beautiful ass
in the history of western civilization,
turned out over the top
of the thighs, out
to the western edge of africa
& back to the states again
to meet the small of her back,
the smell of jasmine & musk
rising from her flesh
in the closeness & warmth
of the tiny room, her eyes
so impossibly soulful
trained on the bandstand,
the band is bird,
monk on piano,
mingus & shadow wilson
at 3:00 am sunday morning,
a bottle of champagne
half drunk on the table,
the music is soft & sweet
yet as deep with intelligence
& spirit as the woman herself
ruby, my dear
filling her big heart with song
detroit
january 12 , 1985 |
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