“Can you play some Jamaican music?”
she asks — the sax man
catches her question.
“Are they from America or
a different island?”
she asks — me.

She hails from Jamaica
on the wings of our lord.
55 this years this July.
Memory like a trap.
Moves like the breeze
as the jazz mob
Stirs It Up.

Her grandmother a princess,
her father a diplomat,
her love for them overflows —
her scarf wrapped round
her head “like home”, she says —
her name is 
Beverly.