Trina Gaynon

T r i n a  G a y n o n

next

Yoshi's

I drank something with the bite

of citrus and gin while Shirley Horn

picked out notes on piano keys, sharply

enough to cut through the fog

settled around the front row table

I shared with strangers in the dark.

Horns and drums backing her were

beside the point. It was just her

and me—witnesses to the struggle

to mend, one note at a time, 

her voice doing 

the stitching—

smooth and precise.