feeding our bodies

the cold air of negative four brings out

wooden handle on black iron

heating goodness of




waiting for the noodles to go translucent

miso sitting by the side

noodles clear

fermented paste mingles

we make offerings to our bodies

of the substances they have asked for

later under paper lights with jazz rhythms in my head

i read the alphabet told through the greats

starting to tell my son the stories

the histories that drew me in

as a child reading the notes from

inside my father’s albums

the words got me before the music

always the stories before the music

then the eight year old me

black disk in hand lets it spin

trying to find the stories in the sounds

lost in rhythms as the natural song of our house


the typewriter fades

the sound of dishes being done

in the harvest gold kitchen

i fade into the music as it turns stories into sound

and turns sound into tales of their own creation.

Inspired by Jazz ABZ