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)