Thomas Davis
“This is a band,” John Pickens said, pointing at the drummer, two women vocalists, and a bass guitarist in a wheelchair below the stage.
When lightning sparked the drums
and songs drove hard as thunder through the small, old school,
young and old women sparked alive
into a place where
black boars dance
and elk begin to trumpet at the moon,
and in their wake their men,
like sock-eyed salmon in the fall,
swam upstream to the place
where life flies in the thump of feet
on wooden floors
and everyday becomes a night
where oceans bigger than the earth
fill up a black hole’s maw
and spirits dance
and sing
with voices driven by the drums
and guitar licks
into a shine of eyes
looking back into the eyes
finding, renewing, confirming who each one of us is
inside our deepest love.
