Fertility and the Sax player

In a quake she lost her ears,

but the wave of his sax, she hears

in her stomach, her model womb,

and she’s moving again.

You won’t see it

you watch her lying, passive as ever.

There, just a snake


of his music you might catch

in her languid form.

The tremor of stone is invisible

to any but closed eyes,

you have to listen to it,

as she listens to him

playing in a tavern


fifty centuries from where she sits,

to whistling sailors who earlier laughed

at her. Time binds her to a

stand but wakens her stone heart

to dance and sway.

Such music! It breezes round

her, through her, down her exposed


breasts and throbs

a romance. Whom has he lost

to play like that? He goes

to a blue place where only she can reach

him, away from the din of the club, away

from our blind ears

into her fertile arms.


When he plays he is hers

and every note he breathes is her

breath.   When the applause rings

away he goes back to the everyday

but she knows, with an old woman’s

lust, that he keeps a whisper on his lips

for her, hot on the lips of his sax.