She would listen to oldies and spark a cigarette. I would age, framed in a similar portrait. Nothing is enough. She would dance. I rarely see it anymore, complete saturation, head moving side to side, hair flowing, as sadness seeps out, accompanied by a big blazing smile. Nothing is enough. Souls are realistic, if manicured. I see images, silhouettes, walls are turning beige. The feeling is in the drums. I hear the greats wailing about going home. I saw, and I see—a room filled with spirits. I hear her saying: “You wanted it.” And with a smirk. At the gates, the tribunal, a grand waltz, orators, and golden lions. “You wanted it.” Let it be swift. And the room was watching us—an old drab couch was listening; kids poke fun, adults rule communities. Nothing is enough. “Don’t let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.” They’d quote scripture, tugging at each other. “Girl, look a here.” “You asked for it.” A silent understanding—something to our cultures. Everyone looking for that feeling. I saw a universe glued to each syllable, so animated, needing that feeling—knowing when it arrives, helping it get there. Spirits at their performances: “It’s what you make it. Stop whining about dumb stuff.” To ask is a serious gesture. It denotes eagerness. It’s a commitment to an answer. Nothing is enough!
