And When You Become Abbey
(on Abbey Sings Abbey, by Abbey Lincoln)
And when you become
a stylist of Triptych scream
the black moan in jim crow’s craw
when you take the Anne out
your name and blame the
absent system, not the song
when your lyric swings low
out-belting the everyday firing range
when the double barrel and
driva’man be damned
you, fortified by your own catalogue,
brassier the second time you sing yourself
when you benedict in blue notes
and your birthstone is a work song,
triple daring and straight -ahead,
when your broad brim leaps
like seventy-seven sleek leopards
and your broach lines a golden throat
pinned to your own breasts headed
South and Southside
when your spine rises out of a meow
growling a gritty scat
and your hand holds a fifty-two card deck of
spades and mangled face cards
and your wrinkles holster a discourse
for drumsticks
when your grandkids are jazz bastards
and you hug them with your whole mouth
and collect scratched vinyl for them to play
like piano keys
