The Spoken Word Professor
"Professor Celestine teaches the power of voice at Spelman. When a visiting poet challenges her classroom, she discovers some verses need no audience."
Words are weapons and medicine.
Twenty-five years teaching spoken word at Spelman, I've shaped voices that changed the world. I'm Professor Celestine—fifty-eight, guardian of the oral tradition.
"Your students are impressive."
The visiting poet stands in my classroom doorway. Marcus Webb—legendary performer, here for the semester.
"They're works in progress."
"So are we all." His eyes hold mine. "I'd like to collaborate."
Collaboration is charged.
His style raw, mine refined, together creating something new.
"You hold back," he observes.
"I teach. That requires restraint."
"It requires presence." He moves closer. "When's the last time you performed? Really performed?"
"I'm beyond that—"
"You're afraid of it."
The accusation stings.
Because it's true. I teach what I've stopped doing—risk, vulnerability, truth.
"Show me," he says.
"Show you what?"
"Your voice. Not the professor's voice. Yours." He sits. "No students, no grades. Just us."
I perform for him.
A piece I wrote years ago, buried, about desire and age and invisible women.
When I finish, he's silent.
"That's who you are," he finally says.
"That's who I was—"
"That's who you've hidden." He stands. "And she's magnificent."
The kiss happens in the empty classroom.
Between desks where I've taught safety, taking the risk I demand from students.
"This is inappropriate—"
"This is honest." He pulls back. "Isn't that what poetry is?"
His apartment is a shrine to words.
Books, recordings, notebooks of verses never performed.
"Read me something," I ask.
He reads about a woman—thick, powerful, carrying universes in her voice. It's me.
"You wrote that—"
"The day I met you." He sets down the notebook. "I've been writing you since."
He undresses me like unwrapping revelation.
"Every line of you," he murmurs.
"I'm not young—"
"You're eternal." His mouth traces my skin. "Let me read you."
His tongue speaks fluently.
Finding rhythms, building meter. When he brings me to the edge, it's like stanza breaks.
"Marcus—"
"Not yet." He smiles. "The best poems have multiple movements."
When he enters me, we're composing together.
"So good," he groans.
"More. Give me the climax."
"Every poem deserves a proper ending."
Afterward, in his bed of verses, he holds me.
"Perform with me."
"I haven't—"
"The showcase. End of semester." He pulls me closer. "Your students deserve to see their professor practice what she preaches."
"I'm terrified—"
"Good. That's when the best work happens." He kisses my forehead. "I'll be beside you."
The showcase is transcendent.
We perform together—call and response, his voice and mine, the audience transfixed.
"To the woman who found her voice again," Marcus toasts after.
"To the man who demanded I use it," I counter.
The wedding is in the classroom.
Where we met, where students have cheered our announcement.
We kiss while the words flow.
Some professors teach.
Some are taught.
And some spoken word artists discover that the truest performance is living the verse.
Voice reclaimed.
Heart opened.
Forever speaking.