Jazz Poems

WHAT I’M WILD FOR

I broke when I was ten and forty-

year-old Mr. D. was clambering on top of me

and it was all I could do to kick him back, keep

the red ceiling light in sight, and wait

for her to find me. So this is what she’s on

her knees for every night, praying

for Pops to come on back, rip her skirt off

and ride her until it’s only skin she ever wants

to feel again. I wanted to fling that in her face

the way a slick trumpeter cat from Philly

flung any panties at me summer I was fifteen.

I’ve seen more love in Alderson, behind

the warden’s back, behind Jim Crow’s back

on the way home from movies: dykes would touch

hands, feed cigarettes to one another

like they were kisses, before the cells broke us all up–-

forgers, whores, boosters, pushers, users.

The soldiers had it, too, begging for pieces

of my dress and stockings, tearing them to petals

under their noses because they have the smell 

of woman on them. I could love a whole

army like that. But two husbands later

and the hungry I feel is not the 600-miles-a-night

on a bus flashing slow silver between gigs

while my stomach opens wide. The cure

for that is simple as a couple bucks, red beans

and rice. What I’m wild for is a few grains

of dope and the shakes I get from head to satin

feet when it’s “Strange Fruit.” One night, my

body can’t

hold me down, the notes break clean, and no one

can see me, but they point to the voice flying over

the band and say, Billie, nobody sings 

hunger like you do, or love.

JANET M. CHOI

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