Do you love Button Poetry? We’d love your support:
Meg Ford, performing “What Lives in the Muscle after the Bruise is Gone”
Button Poetry is committed to developing a coherent and effective system of production, distribution, promotion and fundraising for spoken word and performance poetry.
We seek to showcase the power and diversity of voices in our community. By encouraging and broadcasting the best and brightest performance poets of today, we hope to broaden poetry’s audience, to expand its reach and develop a greater level of cultural appreciation for the art form.
The morning after she weaves an arm Around my waist chin cupped in the easy Basin of my shoulder while i fry yolks And fat to sizzle she takes a palm and Massages the clay of muscle snort says Oh that makes sense And i ask her what she means by that And she tells me that i have trauma Shoulders it's what they call it in Massage therapy when the body holds its Complex post-traumatic this way this way Being a wall all tucked in the trapezius That bloom of muscle arching halfway up Your neck then down the spine my back is All brick and unscalable and of course It is a woman that can touch this body And know of the fault lines before i Even tell her of the shaking And i do tell her it is easier to story This past without having to look a new Love in the eyes to do it because they Always mirror it back at me you know The concern etching the hardening of Anger then there's that last one Pride maybe when she tells me that i got Out that i'm so brave it's the one i Hate the most because brave takes away My permission to break and i'm so crack In breath already so i paint her the Nightmare that my body has already Whispered how he found me every night For six years i know was a word i said So many times it lost all meaning when i Finally told they believed me
Until they didn't oh i never trust the Locks the closet the family still Searching the corners for his shadow Even two decades later and i feel her Trying to climb the wall As if there is another side to all of This and not just more bricks to add As if She's made this trek before Mapped her own spine for its storm Points and tone we always recognize our Own reflections isn't the love of two Survivors the softest light She takes a knuckle to my stone and Tries to force me into something more Malleable A bone that she can twist beautiful Or grotesque Or alive she wants me to feel alive Kisses my jaw and tells me of the Tremble How i broke this delicate thing yolks Running amber in the pan But i tell her But she tells me she doesn't like them Soft anyway Perhaps it was naive of me to think that That pain does not live in my body even When i am not worshiping at its altar of Grief that there are still homes that i Can walk through without the echo of Your snarl and loves that i can have Without having to see you reflected in Their eyes a dream of a world where what
You did does not live inside me where You women can kiss away their past where I can love and love and love without Your hands sneaking through my hair Where you are not welcome in this bed Anymore [Applause] [Music]