Beloved Mulatto Concubine

Our beloved mulatto concubine,
ancient soul with jazzful eyes –
enchanting witchy-woman
with an eerie past.

We watched her children
tap dance on the rue,
spoons tied to their shoes.

Tappity-tap.
“You like dat, mister?”

Mother of the only Blues,
frogspawn born of wounded wombs -
weaving that voodoo we always knew
was not for everyone.

But her music spoke a language;
that raspy tone hummed Truth -
strumming every man’s pain
through a saxophone.

She drowned in a lake;
not that ancient, dusky river
some negro spoke of, but then
she hadn’t been a negro for years.

She was New Orleans –

a mojo all her own,
a mixture of any soul’s best parts.

We can’t march her casket
through the streets,
no white coffin lead by horses
for that ol’ gal.

She’s dead now, anyway –

took back a little something raw
in her passing.

Written September 1, 2005