Censorship

CENSORSHIP There is a language I spoke and I knew. It fluently told it's stories in dance. Graceful chaînes that turned our spirits out and razor sissones to cut with candor. There is a light song I willingly played. My fingers glissade, ran, courir, en croix, rapidly crossing the tired yellow keys. There is a bleached canvas white with nothing! The brush has eyes. It's clever at seeing, tout va bien, and always without me. It tells me what is beneath the linen, a textured story in shape and color. There are no jagged edges in assemblé. The poetry, un mot, could keep the time on paper. It knew dimensions, of four, in every breath. It saw the frozen rose. It sprinkled stories of death or exploded in dimples of joy. It holds my hand and tells on me. A firefly in bourrée is silenced from the play. By Edlynn Nau October 8, 2016