Amy Winehouse: Blue-eyed Soul
That lion growl up from the forest floor
that bass along the bough of every tree
in every song, a burst of tongue. No excuse of love.
It was love. No leafless tree. It was the tree.
Another note and another, on this side
and the other side of clouds and inside the light
of cold stars. They are gone, those notes
that defined song that burned a hole
in the name of music. Who cares worst-dressed
when her soul rolled through a song, flattened
the dough, punched it, rolled it, kneaded
until it rose, warmed, ready to eat.
John Davis is the author of Gigs and The Reservist. His work appears in The Beloit Poetry Journal, Cream City Review, Cutbank, Georgetown Review, The Laurel Review, The North American Review, Oxford Magazine, Poetry Northwest and Sycamore Review. He teaches writing, performs in rock and roll bands and lives on an island near Seattle.