Sex with Coltrane
Are the children opening mouths like hungry saxophones
Clamoring for bread from my bread music?
This exhale of ours bellows in and out
And does not look like a wind instrument
Must be a fool’s hat collecting coins
Never earned by my frail mouth, not like Coltrane
We never slept in the same bed
Coltrane and I: in the same bed I’d fumble.
Yet you wind inside of me and I become your instrument
Now the breasts on my lips
Soft like the rolls I’d bake
When I finally clamored myself to you
Earning that key no door will unlock
I wake to find you seamed against me, Coltrane.
originally published in Whole Beast Rag