Testimony, A Tribute to Charlie Parker. Yusef Komunyakaa

thieves.

      You can do a drum roll

      that rattles slavechains

      on the sea floor.

      What wrong makes you

      loop that silent knot

      & step up on the gallows-

      chair? What reminds you of the wounded paradise

      we stumbled out of?

      You try to beat loneliness

      out of a drum,

      searching for a note

      of kindness here at the edge

      of this grab-wheel,

      with little or no dragline

      beyond the flowering trees

      where only ghosts live—

      no grip to clutch the truth

      under a façade of skylarks.

       —in memory of Richard Johnson

      CANTE JONDO

      Yes, I say, I know

      what you mean.

      Then we’re off.

      Improvising on what

      ifs: can you imagine

      Langston & Lorca

      hypnotized at a window

      in Nella Larsen’s

      apartment, pointing at

      bridges & searchlights

      in a summer sky, can you

      see them? Their breath

      clouds the windowpanes

      one puffed cloud

      indistinguishable from another.

      They click their glasses

      of Jamaican rum. To your

      great King, says Lorca.

      Prisoner in a janitor’s suit,

      adds Langston. Their laughter

      ferries them to a sidestreet

      in the Alhambra,

      & at that moment

      they see old Chorrojumo,

      King of the Gypsies

      clapping his hands

      & stamping his feet

      along with a woman dancing

      a rhumba to a tom-tom’s

      rhythm. Is this Florence

      Mills, or another face

      from the Cotton Club

      almost too handsome

      to look at? To keep

      a dream of Andulusian

      cante jondo alive,

      they agree to meet

      at Small’s Paradise

      the next night,

      where the bells of trumpets

      breathe honeysuckle & reefer,

      where women & men make love

      to the air. You can see

      them now, reclining

      into the Jazz

      Age. You can hear Lorca

      saying he cured his fear

      of falling from the SS Olympic

      on the road to Alfacar.

      But the word sex doesn’t

      flower in that heat wave

      of 1929, only one man touching

      the other’s sleeve, & hands

      swaying to “Beale Street Blues.”

      CHANGES; OR, REVERIES AT A WINDOW OVERLOOKING A COUNTRY ROAD, WITH TWO WOMEN TALKING BLUES IN THE KITCHEN

       Left Column

       Joe, Gus, Sham …

       Even George Edward

       Done gone. Done

       Gone to Jesus, honey.

      Doncha mean the devil,

      Mary? Those Johnson boys

      Were only sweet talkers

      & long, tall bootleggers.

       Child, now you can count

       The men we usedta know

       On one hand. They done

       Dropped like mayflies—

       Cancer, heart trouble,

       Blood pressure, sugar,

       You name it, Eva Mae.

      Amen. Tell the truth,

      Girl. I don’t know.

      Maybe the world’s heavy

      On their shoulders. Maybe

      Too much bed hopping

      & skirt chasing

      Caught up with them

      God don’t like ugly.

       Look at my grandson

       In there, just dragged in

       From God only knows where.

       He high tails it home

       Inbetween women trouble.

      He’s nice as a new piece

      Of silk. It’s a wonder

      Women don’t stick to him

      Like white on rice.

       It’s a fast world

       Out there, honey

       They go all kinda ways.

       Just buried John Henry

       With that old guitar

       Cradled in his arms.

       Over on Fourth Street

       Singing ‘bout hell hounds

       When he dropped dead.

       Your heard ‘bout Jack,

       Right? He just tilted over

       In prayer meeting.

       The good & the bad go

       Into the same song.

      How’s Hattie? She

      Still uppity & half

      Trying