The Poet

the poet

 

Words fell from her lips

pooling on the floor, shimmering

 

Her body almost invisible as she read

moving with rhythm and purpose

 

Her shadow dancing on the wall melded with peeling paint

punctuating stories only she could tell

 

There was beauty to its ugliness

 

Her voice soft, almost a whisper

echoing in a room greedily swallowing all sounds

except for the scraping of our chairs against a cracked tiled floor

 

We pulled them forward to hear her speak

 

And when she was done, she sighed and bent her head

spent, drained, delivered

 

Power, her gift

Our attention, its vehicle

 

photo: Free Vectors

 

note:

I wrote this after watching a woman perform at The New World Deli for the 2017 Austin International Poetry Festival. She was very unassuming when she stepped on stage and then came to life as she read. She was amazing!

 

 

 

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