Written for poetry slam in 2005. Celebrating the female. |
Barefoot Twirls and Songs For Girls She dances under a fingernail of moonlight, twirling and whirling, in barefoot pirouettes. She is a thinker in pink and songstress in leather who carries a tune in her cheek. The breath she exhales is like a flower’s whoop, a sudden puff of flora to cloud the heavy, nightsoaked air. She’s a lover in a red tulip skirt, a dazzling ornament that dangles and baits, provoking a fertile touch. Her kiss can stoke your fire and fan the flame, and her glow will never dim. You watch her from your place, never aiming to step on her toes or spoil her rhythm. She revels in the sweetness of the mud and the coarseness of her skin. The jagged, opalescent streaks on her belly are the prize ribbons from her greatest feat. She rubs them with a smile, luxuriating in their shimmering beauty. She relishes her ripples; signs of life in the milky cream calm. She can have her say, when she feels like speaking. Tonight, she feels like dancing, in celebration of girls, women, mothers and daughters. She sings to the songs of the maiden and the mistress, the virgin and the painted courtesan, the matron and the nymph. Frolic, twist and shimmy to the strumpet’s trumpet hymn. Her perfume is vanilla and sweat, lilacs and ponds, sweet onion and bleach. She is delicious and pleasing, fetching and teasing, and loves herself most when she holds herself close. She can be the siren who sways, or the mighty, gated tower on a heavy, silent night. She is everything. She gives herself with honour, knowing there is grace in the flow, life in the show. The feel of grass cushioning her naked soles is enough to make her cry. The freedom is overwhelming. Such wonderful days and glorious nights, and they’re all for her. And when she sees you smiling at her, moving your feet to her beat, she bursts into a thousand sparkly pieces that flutter through the air with the harpsichord plucks. You have returned to her all that she owns, the desire to dance, the tongue with which to sing and speak and the arms and legs with which to love as a woman should. Flitting hummingbird, warrior and muse. With your docile silence and formerly fragile understanding, you have told her what she already knows. You whisper it in her ear. She’s everything. |