Listening to Records with Satchmo

“An arching voice encapsulates the beauty of the sound,” I say,
and Satchmo smiles.
“it rolls and tumbles words within a chest,
letting them simmer before being fired out like rockets.”
Satchmo holds his trumpet firm against his sternum,
two shining rows of teeth shimmering as beads of sweat roll down
his glimmering face, a blue stage light directly above him.
“Let’s play,” he says.
“Yes sir.”
And I strum my bass guitar to that old familiar beat,
that string of bops and bars that always prelude his
sumptuous blaring.
He squeezes the iridescent horn between his lips,
and a rush of music streams from the bell
and into my burning ears.
“Ah,” I breathe.
It is clear and soothing, and it does not lie.
It preaches like Sunday,
like this ground is holy and these notes are
heaven’s keys to salvation.
Satchmo wails alone through the homily,
through the Eucharist, and outside beyond the
steeple peek, across the vineyards and
fields and cities where people are weeping for deliverance.
And then, quite suddenly, Satchmo stops –
and listens.
I have stopped too.
“There it is,” Satchmo says, “That’s the best part.”

And we are delivered.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry