The Albatross Holds a Note in Her Bill

Stun her with the bolt your sax makes in this light. Strike her.

Trane refuses, asking, weren't we denied this flesh? I will not,and goes on playing the song of rebuke,its harmonies like manna and quail on the ninth night.

Will you deny me? Didn't you follow as I divided a sea for you,like a curtain, like a blouse?Will you now fashion a calf with brass?

Miles smothers the valve keys, Mother-of-Pearl,and this is the kind of night he cannot forgivethe basket placed in the Nile.

Wasn't I your bugle? Trane plays, the Albatross on his shoulder.Didn't I help you speak when your tongue was knotted?And where is the land of milk and honey?

Their blows scream at a silent rock, or the split tabernacle,or the moon like a good woman walking away,their hands reaching for her dress and tearing its hem.

I strike you with the abandoned note, adrift beyond the riverbankbecause you deserve to feel the pain I feel knowing a spellthat only lifts the Albatross higher and away.