a poem for abbey lincoln

speak/ easy

for abbey lincoln

you know a horn reaches past the body past the ache past the secret past the silence like the guitar reaches past the scream past the flat line past the flourish like a name reaches

past the ancestors past the ovary past the egg and the water past the light like a remix reaches past its originary entrance

your voice reaches back it is a sankofa neck nodding the ancestors through folding me into myself like the ripples of a deep and wide ocean folding me into myself like flour enveloping sugar in an orange ceramic bowl

your voice reaches back it is a skin-so-soft hand with perfectly polished red nails it reaches
back it is a recipe recorded on tear stained tissue it reaches back it is a small curdled note
worn honey thin it reaches back like a turtle's dream

you remind me what muh deah said about being fast what my mama showed me bout being fast what india arie sung about being fast you remind me and i am thankful that I carry a

little bit of a swing on a sunday porch with me you remind me to reach past the creak past the crack past the slow heart beat and the fading eyes

you remind me to meditate on purple petals and tangerine dusks and that
moving slowly is not really bad/ moving slowly you see/ the wonders of the deep/ just waiting there for me