Skylark (2014)
“The windows would be fogged from our breathing and from the evening’s rain, which migrated from the damp sweaters slung on the backs of our chairs. We spoke intently there. We listened intently. The air was spiked with words.
“Spiral” was the right name for that café those nights we took our stand at the front of the crowd, adjusted the microphone to the right height—mouth height—and let loose. The words would loop and twirl through the damp air, funnel and spiral into waiting ears, banging against eardrums and fueling brains.
All of us would be running on the same fuel, the same drug. Mom says a good story or poem is the only drug. We’d laugh when the story called for it, cry sometimes, hoot and holler “yeah!” We would jump to our feet and cheer when it was done if it had been a good thing, a good trip. If it hadn’t been, if it had just been so much talk, if the words hadn’t been the right ones to tell the story, we’d clap politely and wait, hopeful for the next performance.
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