^{(Miles Davis, 1926–1991)}

This is what heroin must feel like—

Miles Davis exacting

his way through “Autumn Leaves”—
pretty and cold, a slowly spreading frost

along synapses and veins,
mapping interstellar darkness

one blue note at a time. Sometimes you could hear
him thinking through the changes

like he was hunting himself, relentless
and without mercy, then a burst of blue

flame, squeezing the Harmon mute like a man screaming
from the bottom of a mine shaft—

but however brightly the darkness glows,
it is still darkness, and Miles was a blackbird

on a field of snow, beautiful, distant, quiet—

and however many steps you take to meet him he flies
ten more feet away.

greeter

she hustles us in
eyes tired

shadows stutter
behind nervous trees

outer room

screen door grime
a porous portal

paneling drips
frantic carpet

living room

up early  ricki lake
an endless loop

tv’s wide blue mouth
the only thing moving

pantry

she fast food  she
buy one  get one free

kitchen

parched bones
silently akimbo 

peel of burn
gray of skin

he sizzles
cooks

Grandpa shrugged when the feds at the kitchen door
        said the pigpen weeds were marijuana,
and they were there to cut them down and burn them.
        “Got lots more weeds—feel free to cut them, too.”

Marijuana was in the news a lot
        when I first heard this story. Mom
and I laughed at her father’s innocence,
        briefly united in patronizing parents.

Years later when she told it, she paused and added,
        “But Dad did have terrible arthritis
in his hands, and I wouldn’t bet
        he didn’t know what he had growing there.”

And suddenly I saw the wooden box
        with the slotted roller in the top,
cigarette rolling machine, the knob we’d turn
        to send a crayon down to the waiting tray.

Of course everybody rolled their own
        in the Depression, nothing damning there.
But I felt history cough, twist in my hand,
        watched my solid mother grow translucent,

capable of recasting legend, fact.
        The last time I heard it, she concluded,
“And you know, I wouldn’t care to bet
        it wasn’t my mother who called those agents in.”