Butterfly divine
I promise I'll have some essays back on this page ๐ ๐ญ in the meantime: yet another poem, inspired by a recent performance of (Black) music/futility/struggle at the Boston Center for the Arts.
A hulked back and shoulders hover over a bench before a defective set of piano keys,
Fingers a-flurry and brow furrowed, condensation on temples threatening
to break concentration as sweat droplets bead into the corner of an eye,
the bass player obliviously strums with lids closed and locs shaken,
the drummer ainโt been given some, but heโs taking some
careful concision in his interlocution, he beats kick lightly and holds tetanus in his arms and calves to lock in rhythm
labyrinthine lights hang overhead, a panopticon of a skylight above offering heavenly viewership of trapped bodies
pace picks at limbs as the frenzy hurries and syncopation finds familiar tunes before breaking out in hives/jives
a small moth, maybe a butterfly, flits about the lights and floats in the breeze as notes push and pull
hulked back and shoulders tense and widen
audience trances,
the butterfly embeds itself in the skin of backs and shoulders, across the belly of the listener,
melody improvises a safe haven,
the butterfly breaks free,
a messenger to the stars.
Another body rises in resistance.
For further context, please read my dear friend Niara Hightowerโs review of the performance piece that inspired this poem!
Photo by Melissa Blackall
P.s. my first year as a grad student is finally finished! So look forward to more updates from me on this site/newsletter this summer; thank you for bearing with me ๐ซถ๐พ