Holy Hands

The light from the moon colors his hands cream and
casts diamonds into the eyes of his audience.
When he sits between the music his veins shrink beneath his skin,
waiting for his hands to sink out of sight and his heart to beat his rhythmic blood.

He dances on the piano with these holy moulded hands.
The bones and joints on the back rising and jerking to his pounding of the keys.
His muscles ache for the wire, vibrating its honey hymns.
A kindred image, a symbiotic brother in his musical quest for freedom.

New Orleans is wonderful this time of year, I hear from the pulpit of my understanding.
It dances in its red and yellow streets and beckons its musicians stay a little while.
It squirms and shakes its head to the rhythms of its heartbeat which
persists by the blood pumping through the memories of jazz.

He sits on his wooden throne and throws his chords into our hearts,
which sit restless and hungry for romance.
His Big Easy blastings fill the musky room with an electric fever,
doused only by the sinking moon.

I wander in and out of wondering as I writhe in and out of passion,
sitting still between his heart songs as I adopting them as my own.
I catch his eye and spy a man relaxed among the gods.
“How does it feel to play the music?” I say, as he shakes his hand with mine.
He slaps me on the back and says “I think you’re doing just fine.”