something fills his throat.
it is breath,
and a word
(perhaps a sentence),
like night in November,
full before there is time to blink.
almost angrily on the light
he had spilled earlier that morning,
he swears, “shit” and puts the light back in the jar.
she directed traffic,
the cars that were really just her dreams,
a single dream
fragmented like fingers to three four five
she walked forward,
throwing dream away, slowly away,
brushing the fading space
to finally wake
with words silently silk-screened
to her mouth.
she will return sometime
I tell myself
and believe it this time,
believe as she folds her elbows as envelopes
and mails herself to my address.
her favorite word is stop
and her arms love to flex,
carving the space in front of her
back on itself.
and with her mouth,
she says stop
the s and t sharper each time,
and she plays with the letter p
(the o is just the shape of her lips,
she thinks of the o as a kiss
and does not challenge its circle).
From the author:
I am on a mission to promote the integration of poetry to the process of ‘reviewing’ or responding to dance performances. I feel that the experience of dance supercedes the judgment attached to work (ex: That was a ‘good’ piece; I didn’t ‘like’ that show etc …), and that reviews or responses to creative performances should focus on experience over judgment. By responding through words, creating some semblance of poetry, I feel that the ephemeral art of dance is extended into a larger ‘lifetime’ as well as to a larger audience.