Her legs were like the Sudan
smooth and endless,
reaching out to forever
I can still feel
the shimmering heat
of that little black dress she wore,
the kind of one every woman
is supposed to have,
that slid across her desert
like a cool long shadow;
a drink of shade
to a sweating heart
when she spoke
it was as if you were drinking
your own soul,
smooth as a morning lake
on a windless day
or a cool mist that
lingers like smoke from
a jazz players lips

Take a second to just
breathe that in . . .

She takes to the stage
with a subtle sway,
the kind that makes
a grown man’s mouth cry
a hush falls
like the captured whisper
of a stolen secret
the band strikes in,
first a sweet brushed hi-hat
and tight snare to match,
followed by snapping fingers
flickering in that cool, sweet bliss
the lights come up on that
sublimely statuesque neck
and shadowed jaw line,
leaving you begging
for her tulip mouth to open
with that supple siren’s song;
a voice that brought
the goddamn Argonauts
to their knees

Type your paragraph here.

Canadian Jazz Singer, Eva Schubert.

Photographer:  Ed Araquel

Used with permission for the poem "Cats Dig it" by Christopher Raine

Cats Dig it

© Christopher Raine