Dusky spirits—

through
crackling
static—

strong, brown
woman voices—

creeping
underneath
my skin,
raising little
bumps
like whole notes
lifted
from within—

banging out
those
barrelhouse
keys—

fingering
that
sweet
guitar—

queens
in their
day,
once flesh
and
substance—
umber hues—

now
disembodied,
honey dripping,
careless loving,
"higher than a
Georgia pine,"
"rock me with
one steady roll,"
dark and
ageless
"washerwoman's"
blues.