She listens to burned cds in her car
That sound like old records
Ella sings tales of her heart,
Voice crackling and sizzling
Begging my soul to recall days
Of scratchy records and smooth
Cigarette smoke curling into air
Naked bodies dampened with
Sweat and loving, splayed exhausted, Across thinly cushioned day-beds
Windows crack and a cloud of knowing
Hovers around us,
We welcome it into our lungs
With deep intakes of breath
Tongues loosened with liquor,
We talk of the ways we’ve
Lived our days,
Reflect on the many different
Postures our walks have taken.
We are moving.
Fast and impassioned
Fire in our hearts inflaming our path.
Cigarettes clutched between our Fingers, smoke trails behind us
We don’t know where we are heading.
Until we do, and we are sitting
On a bar stool.
Her eyes wide, she explains
A piece of her soul
Leaning into her tale, hands
Serving as her dancers moving and
Interpreting, punctuating her points.
I get lost when I talk to her,
Access that place in my mind
Reserved for meditating, paper and pen
I pluck out pieces of myself and
Spill them at her feet,
Knowing that although she may not
Know their meaning,
She understands the part of my
Mind that I am pulling from,
Sees the hard sought truths and
Honors them, welcomes them
Accepts them as my truth.