A ceremonial scene;
light a cigarette with an ashed finger
to soothe the emotional anguish,
indignant vestige.
Inhale the lingering smoke;
soft pedal into an aesthetic dimension;
jive against the rhythm of blues from the underground.
The voice of whoever wishes
to claim the devil’s music as their lustration.
Emancipatory soul, sway your hips
inside the beat, eyes closed,
hear the music rinse your dirty skin
irrepressible, and promiscuous.
Take a man’s lap as your seat, and pray
the piano plays softly in the privacy of your ears.
The city is at war with police, your people
are at war on the outside of these doors.
But inside the haze, the mind calms
as you dance with your tears.
For an unlicensed bar, the entry fee
may be the price of your soul.
The hinges burst against the bass of bodies
stepping to the hymn of ancestral sorrows.
Bedeviled blues, the song of shameful negros,
recast itself into spirituals as the tips of their noses
tango intimately with the barrels of guns.
A night at the speakeasy, their buffet flat,
feet grooving to memorialized song
came to a halt as pigs stormed.
The raid took eight-five souls in exchange.
Khyla Bussey is an emerging poet from Oakland, California. A recent graduate of Northwestern University, she holds degrees in Creative Writing and Black Studies. Her poetry has been featured in BlackBoard Magazine and Helicon Literary Magazine.
