Page 47 - Contrast1997

The SaxMan

for my father

I picture you at fifteen,
smooth-cheeked and bow-legged,
protruding front teeth biting
down on the reed. You close
your eyes, lean into the notes-

like you still do. And I
imagine you at twenty,
in a shirt too polyester
with a collar too large.
Your hands are pinkish-
those of a not-yet father.

Now, the reddish light glows on you.
Your hairline is in a different
place; your eyes crinkle
next to the temples.
Somewhere, you feel it:

an unseen mystery that grips
and seeps in and fills to the skin,
spills from you and swirls
toward the dancers. Invisible tones
break through air, then float
easy as bubbles.

I know: you won't always
be forty-three. Forty-four
will come, then fifty. A rush
of years will fade the music-

to softness, yes, but not to silence.
Always, those who danced
will remember how freely
you gave your own breath.

Valerie Kann

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