Janis

Feathered and smiling,
she guffaws as cameras click.
Blind photographers pause.
Eyes flash, I see it then, her pain.

A voice that bleeds,
transfused, I drink her, feel her
in my Janis place, where words
too dire for speech are moaned.

Wailing, flailing, we undulate
in misery, Southern Comfort
a kind neighbor in the hell
of childhood dis-belong.

Mother never heard my woes,
but Janis sang them all.

Written August 10, 2002