Every street in Paris is layered in songs. Every street in Paris is layered in ghosts.
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Wait. Miles Davis is on. That’s half the picture right there. His muted trumpet braids silver around my veins.
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The story is the same always: one of you leaves first & you both know who it’s going to be.
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The music jumps, cuts, flourishes in a way I don’t attempt to map out, recognizing the particular logic of feel.
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Cadenza seizes our attention, rockets us skyward like childhood swings. We grip its chains and fly.
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Cities are places of jazz—where it was born, where it has changed, and where it thrives.
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For as long as I’ve known, my hipbone has made music.
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When they told me he was going, I thought, I will never be loved like this again, and I am only twenty-two.
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The tongue is powerful—it is both body & voice, past & future, self & monster.
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My mother’s mother’s language is the music of canefields.
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