for several hours a day:
the folks we belong to aren't always at play,
so we can't always be at work.
Our silence holds music: an undiscovered bourne,
horizons which have never been viewed,
like undeclared love growing deeper in solitude,
or the crystalline heart of a stone.
My sleep, however, was more like a death:
in the dark of an attic for years;
forgetting my existence, and my glorious career
with the best female swing band on the earth.
I was the great love of my Sweetheart's life.
A man came between us. And soon
I was in the dark collecting dust and out of tune;
they were pronounced man and wife.
Instead of the charts, my gal read Dr. Spock.
We played once a week, once a year . . .
At first, from my closet, I was able to hear
her family's coninuo of talk.
My Sweetheart's grandson brought me to the shop.
Something has ruined my voice.
Older, not riper, I'm a sorry old bass.
But that doesn't mean I've lost hope
. . .that someone will hold me in a tender embrace,
her arms will encircle my neck;
someone will press her warm length to my back,
and pluck notes from my gut with her fingers' caress.
--Marilyn Nelson, from Sweethearts of Rhythm: The Story of the Greatest All-Girl Swing Band in the World
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