34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 22
IS POETRY DEAD?
THE WIFE AND
THE PIANO TEACHER
SOON WE’LL BE DEAD
Indonesia Brown. Now there was a woman. You wouldn’t catch her cozying up to just any shirt, looking for an easy buck. Nope. The few times I saw her go, the man was always hidden in that expensive car. Cigar cherry glowing, arm hanging out the window, curls of smoke rising slow and patient. She never once hurried to meet that car, same one always. Took her time, so that he knew she was in charge, not him. I always imagine so, anyways. She was everything, that woman; sultry and seductive, sophisticated and reserved. The type you know is a lady through and through, no shallow tart or flopsy gal. Pure class, and we all knew it, men and women both.
Not sure the first moment I fell in love with her, but I still remember the first moment I heard her sing. Picked me up and knocked me flat against a wall, her voice. You know, we could shake up the heavens in that gospel choir but I never heard someone singing like her, right from some deep, secret place that was pure woman.
Not sure the first moment I fell in love with her, but I still remember the first moment I heard her sing.
INDONESIA JAZZ BY ASPEN GAINER