Words That Burn

Ornithology, by Lynda Hull (1954-1994)

Gone to seed, ailanthus, the poverty
  tree. Take a phrase, then
fracture it, the pods' gaudy nectarine shades
    ripening to parrots taking flight, all crest
and tail feathers.
                        A musical idea.
                                             Macaws
  scarlet and violet,
                           tangerine as a song
the hue of sunset where my street becomes water

and down shore this phantom city skyline's
  mere hazy silhouette. The alto's
liquid geometry weaves a way of thinking,
    a way of breaking
synchronistic
                    through time
                                       so the girl
  on the comer
                     has the bones of my face,
the old photos, beneath the Kansas City hat,

black fedora lifting hair off my neck
  cooling the sweat of a night-long tidal
pull from bar to bar the night we went
    to find Bird's grave. Eric's chartreuse
perfume. That
                    poured-on dress
                                           I lived days
and nights inside,
                          made love
and slept in, a mesh and slur of zipper

down the back. Women smoked the boulevards
  with gardenias afterhours, asphalt shower-
slick, ozone charging air with sixteenth
    notes, that endless convertible ride to find
the grave
                whose sleep and melody
                                                  wept neglect
  enough to torch us
                           for a while
through snare-sweep of broom on pavement,

the rumpled musk of lover's sheets, charred
  cornices topping crosstown gutted buildings.
Torches us still-cat screech, matte blue steel
    of pistol stroked across the victim's cheek
where fleet shoes
                        jazz this dark
                                             and peeling
  block, that one.
                        Vine Street, Olive.
We had the music, but not the pyrotechnics—

rhinestone straps lashing my shoes, heels sinking
  through earth and Eric in casual drag,
mocha cheekbones rouged, that flawless
    plummy mouth. A style for moving,
heel tap and
                   lighter flick,
                                        lion moan
  of buses pulling away
                                  through the static
brilliant fizz of taffeta on nyloned thighs.

Light mist, etherous, rinsed our faces
  and what happens when
you touch a finger to the cold stone
    that jazz and death played
down to?
               Phrases.
                              Take it all
  and break forever—
                               a man
with gleaming sax, an open sill in summertime,

and the fire-escape's iron zigzag tumbles
  crazy notes to a girl cooling her knees,
wearing one of those dresses no one wears
  anymore, darts and spaghetti straps, glitzy
fabrics foaming
                      an iron bedstead.
                                               The horn's
  alarm, then fluid brass chromatics.
                                                  Extravagant
ailanthus, the courtyard's poverty tree is spike
and wing, slate-blue
                           mourning dove,
                                               sudden cardinal flame.
If you don't live it, it won't come out your horn.