written for the Writer's Cramp--a hendecasyllabic poem--about a local jazz singer
She scats, speaking in tongues to jazz, calling down
antidiluvian pre-Christian forces,
gods who could never love you as you love them.
Earthy and moist, her subterranean voice
percusses your core, skinning all mystery
to just here and now. No charms, incantations
can say what awaits up ahead in the curve.
Groove as the music melts your muscles and bones.
The universe hums to a tune in B-flat,
harmonizing nonsense syllables, she scats.
Written for: "The Writer's Cramp"
For further explanation of form:"Poetry Forms"