when i was a fetus, furled and floating
dreaming in an earth-soft place,
my mother played me music.
i was raised from the womb
in a mantle of sound, shimmering
golden and warm about my shoulders,
crowning the dark tufts
that would someday become the stubborn mane
i still wrestle with today.
my mother’s music followed me:
on car radios as we moved from state to state;
strummed on my grandmother’s vocal cords
as we washed dishes;
in old school cars booming past on the street.
my mother’s music put me to sleep at night
when she worked late, and couldn’t sing to me herself.
i race through this world with my mantle of sound
secured to my shoulders and fluttering in the wind
of my wake,
hurtling through time and space as i grow up
and away from my mother,
held fast to her heart by these rhythms.
i fall asleep to the sounds of her music and mine
interspersed, thick blankets of hip hop and rock,
sheets of classical and pillows of pop,
beds of reggae and flamenco and zydeco
in rooms of techno and gangsta rap.
celtic music frames my windows
and jazz locks the door.
every morning i will wake in this place,
safe in sound, alive in melody,
carried along on the strength of my mother’s love
and the current of her music.