JAZZ POETRY #13--Rebecca Hart Olander


Strange Fruit

Where the plows can’t reach

snow crusts brick tenements in

a black-and-white photograph.

Outside the apartments

streetlamps glow like twin moons,

as if belonging to another solar system,

one where Billie Holiday didn’t die.

Still, the thin blade of her voice

keeps slicing, fragile and honeyed,

transporting me to a closet-sized

chamber redolent with beeswax,

illuminated by a single bare bulb

swinging from its cord.

--Rebecca Hart Olander

(originally published in Brilliant Corners)

Find more about: Rebecca Hart Olander


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