Your Love Ain’t Loving My Blues  

            —for Louis "Satchmo" Armstrong

By Rudolph Lewis

Under flower trees of Paris charms 

Satchmo & horn never quit the blues

He spit soared in hurting dying spaces

—bone trails thread across the Atlantic

He’s in hell’s mouth for room & board

hands tied, stripped black to the waist

blur of fast fingers splashes raw colors

that won’t be silent, like unforgiving skin

grinding bones, all that jazzing, & juju men

Puff the magic dragon with red eyes closed

a golden hi-C,  a rod & staff that rescues

wise men who can’t get their loving right

His wet tongue flying, popping like banners

signifying holy stories of unheard sounds

hooded riders, torches, flaming crosses 

The song syncopates on tear-draped coffins

His sun hugging melodies hook on firewalls

to juba jim crow, the sea’s white belly

Sonar voices in his head testifying, witness

roaring waves crash down like mountains