Melody Forensic

If somebody told me I had only one hour to live,
I'd spend it choking a white man. I'd do it nice and slow.

—Miles Davis

Years in the gristle of knuckles. Thick muscle
at the palm's base. Fingers squeezing,
digging valve keys to mold exhales. Some pain
pinched by the reed—would it wail
if you had found a pink neck before leadpipe brass?
Forgive the epigraph. Don't apologize,
your music may taste funny to someone
after reading this. But damn Miles (if I can call you
Miles) why do black men have to scream in art?
What wants off our tongue floats
in the same ether lungs feed wood-wind
(now you got me doing it). Listen
if "I hurt" falls deaf on their ears,
Kind of Blue is no different.
The black-sound congeals in mason jars
lined across the tops of rickety stoves.
We been frying our story, over-seasoned
with silences. Miles (I'm calling
you Miles) you don't want to play. Sweet indulgence—
let's pretend we're back at the Five Spot, this poem
just another stage light. Move it,
put the trumpet down. Where would you start?
Maybe there, Mr. Cool at the bar—head lolling,
eyes wilted from your blow,
a coil of saliva in his throat so
sure he can swallow your blue note whole.