Deptford Dreams
"Spoken word poet Kezia performs at Deptford open mics, but when aspiring writer James asks to interview her, she shows him that some poetry is performed between sheets, not on stages."
Kezia's words hit like weapons. James sat in the Deptford crowd, transfixed.
She was thick and powerful on stage, dark skin gleaming, poems about love and loss and Caribbean longing that made the room hold its breath.
After, he approached. "I'm writing about the local poetry scene. Can I interview you?"
She looked him over. "Interview? Or something else?"
"Whatever you're offering."
The interview happened at her flat. Tea became wine. Questions became conversation.
"Why poetry?" he asked.
"Because Caribbean people carry too much." She tapped her chest. "Here. Need somewhere for it to go."
"And where does your pain go?"
"Into people who understand." She moved closer. "Do yuh understand?"
He understood with his lips. Then his hands. Then everything.
"Yes! James! Right there!"
She spoke in verse even in pleasure, rhythms and metaphors and sounds that were poetry incarnate.
"Don't stop! Write on mi body!"
He wrote on her body all night. New poems emerged. New verses. Their collaboration taking forms neither expected.
"This," she breathed after. "This goes in the next collection."
"What do you call it?"
"Us. Mi call it us."
The collection won awards. Everyone wondered about the love poems.
"Who's the muse?" interviewers asked.
She looked at James in the audience.
"The one who asked the right questions."
They write together now. Perform together. Live together.
Deptford dreams.
Words made flesh.
Poetry in motion.