The Performance

Brisk air in morning light
From the Munford to Rotunda dash
Byway of Cabell’s steps and cold morning huffs.
That’s how autumn hit
Before third year’s spring 2020 freeze.
Even that fall, too many worries and too many complaints.

Back then, students lined the sidewalks.
At night, few in sight
But my favorite magnolia whose wedded branches
Drifted for another’s embrace.
Autumn waited in twilight.

In a world of dresses and pearls, suits and ties,
There was not much room for those who sat somewhere in between
But for the bench below, waiting to greet Brooks halls’
Late night Thursday guests, who flocked the sidewalks.
Each speaker’s truth was shed to chirps, whoops, applause;
the pause between performances filled with unbridled noise.
Then, I found that I must be a performer.
The audience devoted unconditional applause, attention, and understanding,
As they knew what it was to read and speak truthfully.

Newcomers’ shoulders straightened, lips curled, bellies chortled.
And even as we met online,
The atmosphere was still imbued with
The same revitalizing chaos that is Flux.
Not one eye blinked as I proclaimed my gender,
Only sighs of frustration and joyful claps
After stanza.

Drenched in sweat,
Reddened cheeks,
Frantic thoughts,
Met with only thoughtful remarks
On my prose.This poem is essentially a shout out to one of the greatest organizations I know on grounds, which embraces all artists because of their identities, and more importantly, because of their talent.