Construction Literary Magazine

Fall 2020

Microscopic Jazz

Microscopic Jazz
Photograph via Flickr by GPA Photo Archive
Microscopic Jazz



“You go to my head…” —as sung by Billie Holiday

Under the loupe        enlarged about

       sixteen times        you see your own

furrowed surface:        bunched, craggy terrain

       more lunar        than human,


the brain is        like this too, beneath

       the brow, but        hush now, don’t

explain, the song        goes, these

       rows of small        mountain ranges

are not the        neurotic kind, they

       mind the curl        of the thumb, they

knuckle punch        and run—oh, but one gets

       exhausted,        body

and soul,       and whose hands

       aren’t tired        of being

reasonable        even Billie, elegantly

       armed with that        white gardenia

in her hair, when        strip searched

       on a drug raid        in a rage

stood before the        police, looked

       into their eyes        pissed on the floor