A gathering for May Day, celebrating spring. Potluck in a barn where patch-worked children squeal and race around the room,
dance to the music we make; bare feet and flying hair, hands, legs, arms.
Their mothers arrange dusted desert blooms and buds at the potluck table.
Hay strands float. Bugs sneak in. Lanterns light the insides of the barn.
Conversation improvises over laughter.
Laughter improvises over music. Children play. Feet pat the floor.
Heads nod on swaying bodies.
Men in bandanas, women in skirts,
smile and hug every new attendant, every new friend. They offer them water.
They offer them wine and plates from the potluck table.
Our hands pat skin, reverberate through wood.
Our voices chant, float over the room. We sing folk songs, songs newly made,
we play flute songs, guitar strings, didgeridoo.
My mouth waters at sight of the colorful table;
corn, fresh bread, apple fritters, crock-pot beans, grapes,
salads with flowers in them, soups, stews, dips, strawberries.
During a solo break, I imagine the way grapes pop
when bitten, the way apples crunch, the way fresh bread
cracks crumbs then stretches and receives its butter.
The potluck table scents waft their way to my microphone,
but the air’s grit hits my tongue and parches my throat.
Still I sing when the verses come,
a fertility song for the Yoruban goddess Kori,
improvised over the noise and movement of the pulsating and happy crowd.