I went to the theater last weekend
with a close friend and a dancer friends and friends of friends.
the crowd seemed hip, hot, perhaps vulnerable,
some grounded, some floating, others fleeing, you could tell.
we were seated around a white square,
which was illuminated.
in it, three dancers and a vocal performer
interpreted what female sexuality means to them.
fluid movements and sounds enveloped and transported
ancient questions, patriarchal expectations,
oppressive structures, liberating individuality.
at the end of the night, a wide stream of smushed red berries
divided the square in half, insinuating
that the evening had addressed something utterly existential
and cyclical at that.
something that can birth and kill and reach vastly beyond comprehension.
generally, daily life suffices
to infuse these thoughts of mine with poetry;
this time, performance art sparked it,
and sparked it hard.
so how does it translate into this life and world,
female sexuality, a most primal energy
at times oppressed, desired, used, framed, gulped, admired, mystified, shared, given away, grown into, stolen, detected, longed for, expected, celebrated, dressed up, narrowed down
and so much more, of course;
in fact, as much as the human experience can muster and repeat.
here’s my experience and expression of it,
captured at this very moment,
meaning this portrait would probably differ
if I were to jot it down tomorrow or the day after.
so as an energy, it depends on the flesh to vessel it,
harness is with hormones and health, fuel it metabolically.
it roams in zones but can never be constricted to them.
it exists always in the breath, slow and timid or harshly loud.
it relishes in touch and movement, tender and firm.
simultaneously, it depends on the spirit to awake it.
and it depends on the space that it enters into,
like the personal or relational honeymoon, the intention of it all.
and then, unleashed, it takes on a life of its own,
like a phoenix, soaring into unfathomable heights,
never to be captured or understood or tamed,