Listening to John Coltrane play his Alabama,
Looking at dead leaves, dead grass, dead light,
Dead world in February.
The saxophone flickers and flares,
Drums hammer coffins shut,
Cymbals scatter ashes.
I was only five years old 
When he first mourned his Alabama,
Unaware of losing someone forever,
Of having lost someone again and again,
Of being told that’s what you deserve.
And while I have lost many a thing since,
Not even her last breath in hospice 
Could have sounded like his Alabama.






revised