For Billie Holiday

Your voice,

like smoked honey,
like creaking mahogany,

like roasted chestnuts in late November,

or a rainy Sunday afternoon

in a faded part of town.

Your voice,

an owl's plaintive cry

drifting through an opened window,

weaving in with the purr of the cat on the lap

and the crackling of the fire.

Your voice,

a hung-over clarinet,

throaty and full of regret

after a night of heady carousal.

I hear you now

as I wash these dishes,

alone on this grey morning,

after my own sweet share

of boozing and tomfoolery.

I hear you,

ghostly from the radio,

telling me not to be afraid,

not even of loneliness,

because that’s a gift too –

reminding us we're alive

and one day we won't be.

I hear you telling me,

despite it all, Lady Day,

that everything

will be okay.

We know that’s not true

but it’s important to say it;

even more so to sing it.

And no one sang it, Lady Day –

still no one sings it – 
like you.