for A. J.
I cannot sing but I can listen—
the voice of notes reaching and stretching,
testing the muscles of what sound can be,
should be if we were only ear, only hearing
clear and transcending the clamor of city streets’
rough malodorous push and shove, the traffic
of life’s be there-should have been-yesterday-
tomorrow morning,… but if the night
were the warmest cave, the primal blanket
to layer and comfort our tired feet, to feed
a flame of shadow and light together,
then pure, yes, pure tone would be the echo
and resonance, the neverending claim to live
in the lasting growl and coo of her voice
as “My Funny Valentine” fades and never disappears,
as the final note possesses Sarah Vaughan, possesses us,
documents the sound we should define as pain,
as regret, as love and loss, as human.
Copyright © Jon Tribble 2017
