Dalvey

Slow Burn

Be My Lover

After All These Years

I want to drink by myself from the bottle not a glass
I want to remove the mask, toss my pearls in the grass
I want to bury the script, how I'm supposed to act
I want the silence to hit me — not just echo back

I want to laugh with some weight, not the polite little kind
That fits your whole life in a tiny box you can't find
I want to rip out the seams of this "graceful decay"
And stitch rage into linen just to wear it all day

I'm gonna go braless, forget the makeup
Go braless and not clean the place up
Go braless, gonna set the girls free
Ohhhh bouncy sexy me

I wanna twist the myth, want the full eclipse
Want the goddess with hips who don't need to be kissed
Wanna sit in the dark with candles and just talk
With the women I know who can walk the walk

I want to meet every ghost that I swallowed at work
Shake hands with regret, tell her she's a damn jerk
Want the moon to confess that it never did shine
Just borrowed our light and called aging a crime

I'm gonna go braless, forget the makeup
Go braless and not clean the place up
Go braless, gonna set the girls free
Ohhhh bouncy sexy me

I want to dance with the ash, not the Phoenix they sell
Burn the brochure that left out the photo of hell
Wanna shout to the ladies who are soft-spoken wives
We're not "post-menopausal," we are post-alive

I want to dispel the myth that old women are dull
Wanna tell the young ladies it's not true at all
Wanna shoot down an image that was not ever me
Destroy the lies about women in HIS STORY

I'm gonna go braless, forget the makeup
Go braless and not clean the place up
Go braless, gonna set the girls free
Ohhhh bouncy sexy me

I want to walk without flinching, talk without shrinking
Say what I think , thank those who keep me thinking
Want truth without sugar, natural is not plain
A world where the men change their last names

Call me when it's real — not refined
Call me when the roles better defined
Take my skin, but not my spine
I've paid for every inch of time

I'm gonna go braless, forget the makeup
Go braless and not clean the place up
Go braless, gonna set the girls free
Ohhhh bouncy sexy me

Go Braless

In the early 1980s, Alaska’s salmon industry experienced one of its biggest booms on record. Massive fish runs, surging global demand, and minimal regulation pushed production to unprecedented levels. Canneries — including the floating processor Icy Cape — were desperate for labor and often allowed workers to take on double shifts. The work was grueling, repetitive, and cold, usually done by young people chasing a hard-earned paycheck.

I punch in before the fog can lift,
Pull sleeves over my wrists
The knives are sharp, the music’s loud,
I gut a thousand fish
The floor is slick with something lost,
Air mixed with sea spray
I work the line at Icy Cape
sixteen hours every day

On coffee breaks I sit alone
Where the dockboards creak and sway
I sit and watch all the boats come in,
And none of them will stay
But once a boy from Dutch Harbor came
And tied off near my feet
He said, “You look like someone who
Should take a spin with me”

He pulled  me out in his rusty skiff
I left my bag on a cannery gate
I did not know the boat he was on
And he didn’t ask my name
We watched the gulls out on the sea
Till my hands forgot their ache
Then I climbed back up the dock alone
And punched in at the Cape

There’s girls who cry in bunkhouse beds
And girls who save the tears
There’s one who keeps her mother’s cross
And one who counts the years
I trade my dreams for dollar bills
And drop them in a can
They say there’s nothing colder than
A fish knife in your hand

I think of him some nights on shift
When the smell of fish fills my lungs
Or when I'm pulling on my boots
Long before the morning comes
I never saw that boy again,
'cause cannery girls never do
But sometimes when the wind kicks up
I think he's  looking for me too

He pulled  me out in his rusty skiff
I left my bag on a cannery gate
I didn’t ask the boat he was from
And he didn’t ask my name
We watched the gulls out on the sea
Till my hands forgot their ache
Then I climbed back up the dock alone
And punched in at the Cape

Now summer’s gone, and so is he
And I still take my place
Where I gut the fish and count my dollars
At the Icy Cape

Icy Cape Cannery

Verse 1
She asked me when she was young
While brushing out her hair—
“If I go far, and change my name,
Will anyone still care?”
She folds her doubts like winter clothes
And tucks them out of sight
But I have seen her watch the sky
When her dreams are taking flight

Verse 2
She paints her eyelids ocean blue
And walks like she’s not scared
But she left a note beneath my cup
Said she thinks she's not prepared
She burns through hours in her room
With headphones in her ears
Thinks she might never fall in love
But that was in some harder years

Chorus
You’ll be loved in some sweet, kind ways,
Not always spoken, not always praise
In passing glances, silent meals,
When hands that work show how he feels
You’ll be loved when no one's sure
Where love and friendship start to blur
When you think you're too far from what you were
He will love you deeply and you'll be sure 

Verse 3
She leaves the porch light flickering
And drives out past the town
I have seen him break her heart
And how it spun her world around
She says she won’t break in two
But whispers when she sleeps
A thousand questions I don’t know
The answers are inside her deep

Bridge
In the room where she once slept
So many years since she's been gone
She called to say if he don't feel  the same,
Does it mean my heart is wrong?”

Repeat Chorus
You’ll be loved in some sweet, kind ways,
Not always spoken, not always praise
In passing glances, silent meals,
When hands that work show how he feels
You’ll be loved when no one's sure
Where love and friendship start to blur
When you think you're too far from what you were—
He will love you deeply and you'll be sure 

You Will Be Loved (Kalina's Song)

In 1942, during World War II, the U.S. Army was still segregated. That year, more than 3,000 Black soldiers from segregated engineering regiments were sent from the American South to help build the Alaska Highway — a vital overland route for moving military supplies into the territory. These men served in units like the 93rd, 95th, and 97th Engineer General Service Regiments. They labored under brutal and unequal conditions: remote, frozen camps where white troops received better supplies, housing, and recognition. Despite their critical role in completing the highway, their contribution is largely unacknowledged.

Came in an envelope from Canada
handwritten, addressed to me.
I like the way you write my name,
Postmarked Dawson City.
They sent you to build a war road
through ice and frozen mud
rain cuts straight through steel,
and the cold don’t ever let up.

I like to read your letters slow
(Daddy calls it Victory Mail.)
Says you're gonna break your back,
(laying a road through hell.)
Don't know when you’ll be back,
(Baby get home when you can)
I'm still waiting for you
(my Alcan man.)

They give you less and work you double—
that’s what your letter said.
Men been singing old slavery songs,
and eating rationed bread.
white boys get the good tents,
with heaters near their feet.
But you get a bunk and a shovel,
and every night you dream of me

I like to read your letters slow
(Daddy calls it Victory Mail.)
Says you're gonna break your back,
(laying a road through hell.)
Don't know when you’ll be back,
(Baby get home when you can)
I'm still waiting for you
(my Alcan man.)

Mama says I should let you go,
says, “Hard men don’t come clean.”
But she don’t know your heart
or how you feel about me
We’ll build a house in Mobile—
something small, but ours.
Oh maybe this road you’re working on
can buy us a small start

I like to read your letters slow
(Daddy calls it Victory Mail.)
Says you're gonna break your back,
(laying a road through hell.)
Don't know when you’ll be back,
(Baby get home when you can)
I'm still waiting for you
(my Alcan man.)

If you come back missing
something or your pride,
I’ll be here with the kettle on—
everything’ll be all right.
I’ll want you just the same,
if you return a broken man.
Take you how the road returns you—
I'll give you all I can

I like to read your letters slow
(Daddy calls it Victory Mail.)
Says you're gonna break your back,
(laying a road through hell.)
Don't know when you’ll be back,
(Baby get home when you can)
I'm still waiting for you
(my Alcan man.)

Alcan Man

A Weirdo Like Me

In 1942, during World War II, the U.S. Army was still segregated. That year, more than 4,000 Black soldiers from segregated engineering regiments were sent from the American South to help build the Alaska Highway — a vital overland route for moving military supplies into the territory. These men served in units like the 93rd, 95th, and 97th Engineer General Service Regiments. They labored under brutal and unequal conditions: remote, frozen camps where white troops received better supplies, housing, and recognition. Despite their critical role in completing the highway, their contribution is largely unacknowledged. ALCAN Highway is the nickname given for the Alaskan-Canadian Highway.

Came in an envelope from Canada
handwritten, addressed to me.
I like the way you write my name,
Postmarked Dawson City.
They sent you to build a war road
through ice and frozen mud
rain cuts straight through steel,
and the cold don’t ever let up.

I like to read your letters slow
(Daddy calls it Victory Mail.)
Says you're gonna break your back,
(laying a road through hell.)
Don't know when you’ll be back,
(Baby get home when you can)
I'm still waiting for you
(my Alcan man.)

They give you less and work you double—
that’s what your letter said.
Men been singing old slavery songs,
and eating rationed bread.
white boys get the good tents,
with heaters near their feet.
But you get a bunk and a shovel,
and every night you dream of me

I like to read your letters slow
(Daddy calls it Victory Mail.)
Says you're gonna break your back,
(laying a road through hell.)
Don't know when you’ll be back,
(Baby get home when you can)
I'm still waiting for you
(my Alcan man.)

Mama says I should let you go,
says, “Hard men don’t come clean.”
But she don’t know your heart
or how you feel about me
We’ll build a house in Mobile—
something small, but ours.
Oh maybe this road you’re working on
can buy us a small start

I like to read your letters slow
(Daddy calls it Victory Mail.)
Says you're gonna break your back,
(laying a road through hell.)
Don't know when you’ll be back,
(Baby get home when you can)
I'm still waiting for you
(my Alcan man.)

If you come back missing
something or your pride,
I’ll be here with the kettle on—
everything’ll be all right.
I’ll want you just the same,
if you return a broken man.
Take you how the road returns you—
I'll give you all I can

I like to read your letters slow
(Daddy calls it Victory Mail.)
Says you're gonna break your back,
(laying a road through hell.)
Don't know when you’ll be back,
(Baby get home when you can)
I'm still waiting for you
(my Alcan man.)

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