The Fellow Plays Ella Scatting “How High The Moon” & Asks The Poets, Define What You Hear

Fitzgerald conjures the moon,

duende-esque from ribs, from tongue,

from breath—she breathes the moon into

our bodies—the moon constellating inside

our lungs, heaving us into the galaxies of

cells & tissues—scatting & morphing &

pitching our moon follicles, our moon

scapulas, our moon cheek bones cresting,

sclera moons—she lifts voice &

handkerchief moves across the sweat of

her forehead—each salty drop, an eclipse

of awayness, awayness—Idaho wailed &

wiped wailed & wiped again & again until

Idaho vibrates & crescendos behind the

filling, behind the depleting chest—to

taste awayness in throats— she wrecks

us— back—to our bodies of twilight.