Embouchure

I want a man who can play a trumpet,
a chet-baker-square-jaw-jazz-man, a man
who understands embouchure, who knows
what to do with his lips and tongue, who
knows what to do—and what not to do—
with his teeth. I want a man who knows
how to breathe, a long slow exhale, past
himself and through you, into you. I want
a man who can make a brass horn sing,
scream a little, scream loud sometimes,
a melody, a harmony, a whispered prayer.
I want a horn man, a brass man, a trumpet
player, a man who knows how to blow,
how to make his lips buzz, how to double
tongue. I want a man who will make love
to music he makes up himself, who’ll make
me want to respond, react, breathe back,
sway my hips in bed. I want a man who
will make me feel like I’m an integral part
of an orchestra, or make me feel like an
intimate part of a jazz ensemble, or make
me feel like the mouth of a river, a tributary,
the current that carried Moses, that made
him a king, a hero, a savior, a man.

– Paula J. Lambert

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