JAZZ LADY OF THE SUBWAY
By Daniela Gioseffi
She sings her heart out with a smile
like Louis Armstrong on the subway's dusty platform
with her band, a base, guitar, horn player,
and drummer. She keeps singing with a smile
even as an old demented man dances up and down,
keeping rhythm in front of her, blocking the audience view,
with his big rag of a coat, swollen leg and crutch.
Undaunted, smiling even at the old beggar who steals her
spotlight. "Music Under New York" says her sign, and she's among
the good jazz musicians who play in the subways for quarters
and dollars collected in a hat or instrument case open
in front of them.
Making music amidst the rumble of trains and rush of people
who are made more cheerful by their tunes.
Evelyn Blakey knows that the homeless man
who dances on his crutch is comforted by her warble.
"Georgia, Georgia...just an old sweet tune keeps Georgia
on my mind..."he sings along with her, grinning soul,
the sort of smile that says: I've been
through it all, but sing anyway." Evelyn Blakey, listens
to the horn jam, listens to the drums roll,
with ecstatic eyes closed, face full of music,
and the old beggar dances on his swollen foot,
his ragged coat swings back and forth with his tired bones,
his grey head bobs in rhythm,
and Evelyn, Evelyn, Evelyn Blakely sings,
her heart full of sonorous sound,
her foot tapping the ground,
her subway commuters gather around.
THROUGH THE "I" OF THE NEEDLE
By Daniela Gioseffi
The peach is
a belly dancer's fruit.
It has a navel eye for seeing
the world through the skin,
rounded buttocks
good
to place against the hand
the way earth reminds flesh
of its being.
Through the eye of the needle,
death is a country
where people
wonder
and worry
what it's like to live.
The sullen wish to live
and live soon
to be done
with death
and the happy
want
to stay dead
forever
wondering
will it hurt
to live
and is there death
after
death?
SHEEPDOG OF THE CITY
By Daniela Gioseffi
I'm your nurse because the doctors
wear penises. I'm Scarlet O'Hara
wearing an ancient Chinese mask at your
funeral. Yesterday, I looked into
the mirror and your scars
were on my face. I call to you
because dart throwers chase me
through a circus of elevators
and orphans wander
wounded by madness in the streets,
asking for my last slice of bread.
I'm the Whore of Babylon
sucking your love,
pulling weeds from your throat.
I'm the sheepdog wandering in your dreams,
the white cane tapping away your blindness.
My breasts are sensitive to the rain
because I listened to the rain with you.