Joe Cocker is raw folklore, the myth
of origin
of my long-haul marriage with my wife.
A vocal gift.

A night concert tuned the moment, crisp
chill of moonlight
dared us to clasp hands, flesh brushed flesh,
a silent wish.

The rebel context, Cocker's raspy
Woodstock flashbacks,
a hidden flask of throat-burning rye
Irish whiskey,

a pack of Newport long cigarettes,
silent, swaying
night ecstasy, my wife's rakish black
Che-lives beret.

Cocker sweated at the microphone,
spotlight holy,
softly struck grand piano chords eased
the prelude home

for "You Are So Beautiful."
Mangled groaning,
Eucharistic words broken sacred,
pure mystical.

Primal voice tore root from earth, longing
shattered black clouds,
the imperfections drained and filled us,
bruising, healing.

My wife leaned below sound, a first kiss,
a downed live wire
dancing in the street after strong storms--
such a hard kiss.

We gasped, fractured and broken, made whole,
he churned childhood
traumas into resurrection with
his rough-edged soul.

His voice freed stars, our dreamcatcher kiss
captured stardust,
siphoned magic into our closed eyes,
an endless kiss.