Jezebel's Song

Jezebel’s Song


Thigh grinding sashay
& judgment crunching
like flies under Saturday
night heels

Jezebel always wore the same
pantyhose to mass—the jet black ones
with control top & run
longer than Euphrates

No wife’s perfume matched her
menstrual musk

Jello bottom jiggle
under Sunday dress

Altar boys hid
hard ons in folds of robes;
Mummy turned
my face into her paisley hip

Jezebel winked
at men with her left eye
their wives with her right
then kissed their babies
eyes shut songs
lips cool ocean floors
secrets sleeping on her
taste buds like peppermints

How yuh letters, gyul she asked
me once under Mummy’s
heating lamp glare

I said fine

Once she stuck out
her tongue at Father who slipped
Jesus’s body gingerly into her mouth

Everyone listened
for the Eucharist’s dissolve

The organ even stopped

Rumor had it she transformed
a broomstick into a microphone
at that place

Every Sunday I waited
for her eruption into a smoky song

But she didn’t even sing
Our Father just hummed
& swayed, hummed
& swayed

Even her bee
language was beautiful
the women who lived inside Uncle’s black box
jazz singers
their voices curving roads

Whenever she didn’t balance
in on sun rays Sundays
weren’t quite as candid

Maybe it was the erections or her
romantic imperfections—
river snaking down her leg
pigeon toed stroll
bleeding dancing shoes
thick custard grin

Maybe it was the altar
boys who longed to taste
February on her breath
or the wives with eyes
that could sharpen pencils

Maybe it was me and my friends
who reached home and dusted
off our mother’s high heels
licking red pistachio shells
just for the lipstick

She never sang the Our Father
just hummed & swayed
hummed & swayed

I always wondered
what song she lodged there

Deep wind caught
in the throat of a valley


© Samantha Thornhill

Published in the Louisville Review