by Casey Dapshi
Somewhere out there,
on glowing street light roads
in the hustle & bushel of the night
I can hear a dance floor calling,
swirling around my house like rosemary incense sticks.
I want to waft in it, inhale it until my lungs are full
of music & life again.
Why should judgment paralyze me?
So what?
Yes– I am a little messy,
but this pile of clothes on my floor is the aftermath of the fashion show tornado that swallowed
my skipping feet to my runway
& these empty mugs scattered around my living room
are a trail to follow of my caffeinated determinedness
to get this poem done,
rims stained with Clinique Black Honey:
a museum exhibition of my essence.
What does it take to be a revolutionary woman in a world
that shames my heart?
I cannot take it anymore–
I am tearing off dead skin from my shivering bones,
french tip manicure scratching crimson claw marks
of a ravenous vulture on this dead vessel
to release whatever has been shoved deep, deep down,
a snake’s shedding coat by my front door.
Release me from it!
I am young! I am wild! I am free!
I am the young barn swallow
finally flying from that nest atop the pine trees
towards open field migration.
There, I feel it again.
That ringing in my racing heart.
The dance floor is calling to me
again & again & again,
a symphony of laughter only found in freedom.
I must follow it now,
I must dance for all the times I could not.
It is impossible to keep a revolutionary woman from dancing as impossible as it is to keep a feral dog muzzled.
Tonight– I belong to nobody
but the dance floor & the one electrifying
beat of my heart that remarkably is still keeping me alive,
the one of a dj’s flickering finger in my one wild, young, & free heart.
About the Author:
Casey Dapshi is a junior English Creative Writing major at SUNY Geneseo. She can mostly be found either reading poetry in her hammock, collecting trinkets, or basking in the sun when the terrible NY weather allows. She hopes to go into children’s literature post college, and her favorite apple is a Pink Lady.