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Out of Tune.

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We were scatting along fine
’til things stalled mid-session.

Now our jazz is hollow
like the belly of an old drum.

Your fingers have turned to air-headed strings
and my lips close round untested reeds.

We improvise for the children at dinner
but our lyrics don’t rhyme.
We hum in separate keys,
a different time.

Then, later, on the sofa, we talk biology:
how what the gut rejects
will burst from the mouth.
Politics: how what creeps into the north
will ravage the south
…and the hopeless state of our union.

By Lola Shoneyin

(Culled from facebook)

 

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