watch as my skirt drags across this stage,
as I let the notes circle around me when I turn
closer and further
intimate and so far away
until my head nods for one last time
snapping shut the doors to this captivating
tune, this siren’s song
listen to the echoing of the applause
bouncing off these carpeted walls
and onto my skin
wrapping me into its thundering embrace
take note of the slight nod of my head
signaling the close of the curtains,
the end of this bow
and now
don’t watch as my bare feet touch the cold
ground of my dressing room
well, the ground that is not completely
adorned with chocolates and cheeses and
legs
so many legs
don’t watch as my skirt hikes up my thighs
and my knees jet out from below the fabric
don’t listen as I let a cackle escape where a vibrato usually lies
and a snort, every now and then
don’t smell the sweat seeping into the air
or the oils flowing from the roots of our crowns
coming from a room filled over capacity with Black
bodies and Black love and Black women
Blackness that sings sweeter than my own voice
don’t touch the hands of my sisters,
colleagues in old concerts,
friends from the companies of our youth
women who push me to see art as love and joy and heart
art for us
applaud me from the safety of your seats
watch me from below the height of this stage
and then look away
maybe it’s best you never saw it
maybe it’s best you kept your articles
to wonder and amazement
at the exception
the truth is I was never staring up
at a man
I was staring at this love
this love that fills that stage
when I sing
this love that fills this room
when I do not
so don’t come any closer
this joy, this freedom, this community
is mine
The photograph and poem above depict Sissieretta Jones, one of only a handful of Black women named — as opposed to just being labeled as someone else’s nurse, maid, servant, slave, etc. — within the Randolph Linsly Simpson African American photography collection at the Beinecke Library at Yale University.