Billie Holiday

Billie Holiday (April 7, 1915 – July 17, 1959)

With a knife. At her throat. He keeps hitting me. What can I do? Keep waiting for something to fall. Something to stop. Always another blow. Apologies and booze. Thank the dear Lord. When he’s had enough.

Floor boards creaking. With wind and with wear. Trousers slung over an easy chair. Spread those legs, girl! Was all that she heard. Didn’t care. That she was ten years old. Someone should have been there. Someone should have heard. That wretched curse and those ugly words.

And the soot would pour down her throat. From the bastards in brown trousers. Given a pillow. In The House of the Good Shepherd. Where Jesus kissed the dust off her face. Didn’t stop that itch in the night. That lament. That cry.

American pianist Alexander Kelberine. Programmed his last recital with pieces. In minor keys and melodic funereal lines. He then went home. And took. An overdose of sleeping pills. Made Billie laugh. Put the bottle of wine back on the shelf. And wondered if he had worn. His best suit. Then wrote a song. On some postcards. Of southern trees. And strange exotic fruit.