by Cornelius Eady

    Some folks will tell you the blues¹ is a woman，

    Some type of supernatural creature.

    My mother would tell you， if she could，

    About her life with my father，

    A strange and sometimes cruel gentleman.

    She would tell you about the choices

    A young black woman faces.

    Is falling in with some man

    A deal with the devil

    In blue terms， the tongue we use

    When we don't want nuance²

    To get in the way，

    When we need to talk straight.

    My mother chooses my father

    After choosing a man

    Who was， as we sing it，

    Of no account.

    This man made my father look good，

    That's how bad it was.

    He made my father seem like an island

    In the middle of a stormy sea，

    He made my father look like a rock.

    And is the blues the moment you realize

    You exist in a stacked deck，

    You look in a mirror at your young face，

    The face my sister carries，

    And you know it's the only leverage³

    You've got.

    Does this create a hurt that whispers

    How you going to do？

    Is the blues the moment

    You shrug⁴ your shoulders

    And agree， a girl without money

    Is nothing， dust

    To be pushed around by any old breeze.

    Compared to this，

    My father seems， briefly⁵，

    To be a fire escape.

    This is the way the blues works

    Its sorry wonders，

    Makes trouble look like

    A feather bed，

    Makes the wrong man's kisses

    A healing.

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