some rhythm and blues

 

 

 

 

 

 

        Donny Hathaway                                                                                                

listening to “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother”




Lingering at the edge
of want, grasping how,
clawing, gripping again,
then leaping, spread-winged,
shape of wail, taking yes
to good night. Rivering,
ghosting in a slow-drag:
churching gravity. Praise
armed to hold bones, larynx
of soldered gold, soldier
for the blues coup, heaven
flung, for what’s coursing out.
Past the plunge of need, of we,
when salt-throat bears all
to the blood of undone.


                    Christian Campbell  ( bahamian poet )








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