Jazz Auntie.

I tell you, she should sing
indigo blue notes
under neon at night
in a green dress too tight
that cut off circulation
damn worse than those
jailhouse whale bones.

Stunning
so stunning that Columbia
could only press records—
we could only press typewriter keys
and flash buttons to hold her down.
The press never officially got a statement.

She can’t be our grandma
or even twice-removed auntie
but like hell did she glide
out from the curtain,
like foggy condensation
down the highball,
the melting ice cubes
playing hillbilly spoons
round and round the bottom
of the cheap clean glass.

But we weren’t there, so we don’t know.