“What do we need?
Passion
to put words into context / to formulate a pretext worthy / of our cut-and -paste verbal / aching to be heard.”
In the kitchen, dinner was cooking, ground game meat, frozen corn, a can of soup. The elements smelt like hot metal and smoke. I was procrastinating, using time like hands around my throat. I had put off cooking until the last minute, so I would be a little late on purpose to the Poetry Slam. It didn’t help. When it came my turn to stand up to the mic, I still broke down. My voice fled down my throat and I was unable to catch it until halfway through. When it was done, my feet fell off the stage and I found myself in the arms of a stranger, a small blond woman who sobbed silently into my body as if she were about to shatter. I held her tight and was grateful.
“And some days they split atoms
And some days they kick stones
Today they find our voice”