Alice Coltrane had John Coltrane inside of her. The ontogeny of her music followed his phylogeny – the creatures he had been, along the way. Beast bodies he had chosen to blow through to make the hollow sound on the saxophone. The organs he had had.

She took his love his body his soul and she carried them on inside her, for him. For his sake. But he had lived and breathed of our sakes. She became, and chose to remain, a vessel for his creatures. His ark.

Embryo with horn to embryo with hoof to embryo with tail and wing. She was a black winged horse, and a black fox bat.

She took his seed inside her ad grew it. She took his seed inside her and, when it was bigger, freer, doper, flyer she launched it out. The seed of plutonium yields a uranium child inside this woman’s head, and it made her wail. Listen. She leapt off the pianoscape and landed on a reedy Hindu organscape. He had howled for her to wail. And if his were cries of sadness in the world, hers became another kind of sadness in another world. And otherworldly crying of disconsolation. On a reed organ.