And When You Become Abbey

And When You Become Abbey 

(on Abbey Sings Abbey, by Abbey Lincoln) 

And when you become  

a stylist of Triptych scream 

the black moan in jim crow’s craw  

when you take the Anne out  

your name and blame the

absent system, not the song 

when your lyric swings low  

out-belting the everyday firing range 

when the double barrel and  

driva’man be damned 

you, fortified by your own catalogue, 

brassier the second time you sing yourself 

when you benedict in blue notes 

and your birthstone is a work song,  

triple daring and straight -ahead, 

when your broad brim leaps  

like seventy-seven sleek leopards  

and your broach lines a golden throat 

pinned to your own breasts headed  

South and Southside  

when your spine rises out of a meow 

growling a gritty scat 

and your hand holds a fifty-two card deck of 

spades and mangled face cards  

and your wrinkles holster a discourse  

for drumsticks 

when your grandkids are jazz bastards 

and you hug them with your whole mouth 

and collect scratched vinyl for them to play 

like piano keys