It’s hard for me to dance—my hoof-foot’s from a dairy cow,
ankle from the farmer’s neighbor three years later. Funny story,
tell you when we’re not drowned out by surging bass.
My cerebrum’s stolen goods—last time I drank, I stumbled on a grave
whose tenant rose and recognized a ligament or two of mine,
flinched at the final product like all dads sometimes
or (to be Frank) because his cornea is split between my filmy wayward eyes.
Is the bass drum my imagination or misshapen cochleae?
Best to quaff this sick concoction—I can’t miss when this beat breaks.
You ain’t never seen a body move the way I relevé.
With thirteen amelodic krump gyrations in a row,
lurching with a newfound funk through violet searching strobes,
wait till the shrieking circle sees this grungy hunch ain’t all for show—
these electrodes just might shock us all with soul.
—Mable Buchanan Palmer
Mable Buchanan Palmer is a poet and educator based in Grand Rapids, Michigan.