A kaleidoscope of face paint, dreadlocks, a silk scarf, a biker jacket, camouflage chock full of zippers. I squeezed between bodies to a patch of floor near the stage. The last poet of the round was called Progress. Her hands cupped the mike and her mouth kissed metal, ripping syllables into the silver eye. The speakers blasted her words into the packed room.“Liberate yourself!” Her last words rang as Progress left the stage in a tsunami of applause, pressing curls back from her forehead. She blinked back moistness at the corners of her eyes. She won the slam. $15.
Amy Asherah is a poet and writer whose work has been published in The New York Times (Modern Love), Boulevard, CALYX, and other places. www.amyasherah.com