by Vanessa Angulo
Acrobatic acts of ecstatic devotion, the body bends to breaking then snaps back into a proper decision. Fluid sexuality spinning off the tendrils, vigorous chanting and the saying of names. The face devoid of oxygen and stretched from wild expression.
Exaltations animate the space. Oh the space…
Heavy air, like that of an opium den. Smoke in curved shapes, like women soft and kind. The stomach twisted in linens and vines of grey and gold. There is a botanical warmth. The feeling is fresh and ardent. It’s eager to enjoy the scents and sounds of this incineration. Sweet tea is boiling up from the skin. Shinning on, whipping past the present state of stares and insistent glances. Must. Continue. The eyes are watching. The mouth is gaping for a kiss. It continues.
Leaves are now rising up from the bones. Waxy in green, vivid. Flowers flying off, catching the face again at the pinkest points. Tips are sliding lines down the deep curve of the back, (ripping as they go). The dress and demeanor are done. ‘Rise skirt, remove the aspirin and dance.’ The knees; becoming movable. They do. Move.
Turning the spine into a snake. Twisting that turn, untying that knot. The space is moving sinuously like waves. Melting muscle like candle wax, and the pouring out of hearts. Staining the resistant.
The whites of the eyes are etched with wires. The insistence of those glances has deepened and the arms are cast out wide. Clap. Slap, turn and again. Clap. Slap, turn. Throwing the head back, scraping the ribbons across the cheeks and lips.
They begin sticking to the sweet tea. The thorax is engaged in its own voodoo, pink pins pick the right spot and the muscle memorizing this want. Must move like this. Floating jejune, fresh and ardent. Tangling up in hands. The mouth begins shifting into a softness, not unlike the feminine smoke. The curve slides and closes the eyes.
Engage in this ecstatic devotion. Must. Continue. It does continue, and gracefully so.
Response to Amy Adams’ Dervish