Photo Credit: Rachel Eliza Griffiths
bent in bows
treks through thick
tunnels of sound
your cold seat
to open eyes
out of closed
When the Needle Drops
The cipher's grooves mimic scratchy
bop and spin of LP's. Each recess
an abyss of memory anchored in pulse.
The pelvic arch opens in this sound.
Timber heeds some sacred motion
where head points chin to collarbone.
We greet the complexity of bones,
their unexpected affair with tendons
and sweat befriends the pores swollen
with smoke. The body acts as its own
mystic, apothecary and sweat lodge.
Ache is some sonnet that the dead
have not named or claimed.
Meter winds with bodies
in blue & red lights. Rhythm finds
its home in oriki, decima, aguinaldo
the son, the blues. Some history
unrolls in chests and pops its corners,
a windowshade exposing us to the next
morning, so much tugging and beelining
toward bills, crowded trains, shifts,
whatever corks anarchy and blood inside us.