Love Song to Blues
It is important to remember
the blues note is an imperfection.
It sits between right and right, it is out
of key. It is important to remember
the blues note is not an imperfection.
It is color, it covers melody
with brine, ocean weeds, covers floating wood
with electric jelly. It is good enough
for leaving, for longing, for serenading
Beelzebub with nickel string flowers
and candied starfish in jars without hearts
or minds or eyes. Feel it. It is not something
you can hear, after all
the trees die from soaking their roots
in salt blood, in desperation. Chromatics come
from wild earth. Listen to the world,
it radiates dissonance. Acorns fall
and rattle off branches like tone deaf pianos.
The blues note accepts water
in lungs, if it is true. It swallows sorrow like air.
It interjects, it follows bees and rivers
to continent edges, it kneels on knives
and shells and rocks and it is important
to remember the incisions
on its legs, on its atria, do not deserve
to be stitched and perfect. When it tries
to fix itself with alcohol, with platelets,
Andrew Hemmert is a sixth-generation Florida native, and Florida’s leaked into his work on more than one occasion.