October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month—time to share Maggie once again. I am grateful to have been the conduit for the following poem several years ago. It was well past midnight when I returned home from a friend’s 50^th birthday party and sat down at my kitchen table. Maggie, a blending of several women that I knew personally and thousands of women that I knew viscerally, opened my notebook, handed me my pen, and fell onto the page in full living color with surround sound stereo. Now, ten years later and still aware of her strong presence, I “move with the rhythm and give Maggie the praise.”

Maggie

festive dancers poured into forest clearing
as eastern horizon birthed buttery full moon, and
aging ragtag band belted and crooned familiar tunes
from the 50s, 60s and 70s—wild and crazy, thick and lazy
pregnant with love’s bliss and blunder and bygone dreams
of peace on earth, make love not war

that was the night Maggie danced her shoes right off her feet
nothing left but a few scraps of leather
kicked wildly into the weeds
danced through her purple and green socks
till they hung in rags around her ankles
danced her joy till it was all used up
then danced through her strong woman skin
and painted the ground red with her blood

danced her broken marriages into the dust
stomp, stomp, stompety-stomp
like rattlesnakes that needed killing
danced her fuck this, fuck that, fuck you teenager
into flattened grass and curling roots
down, down to earth’s fiery core

she wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop
after a lifetime of tamping it down and locking it up
her anger raged as rhythm and blues and rock ‘n roll
invaded her body and mind like some unleashed demon
demanding her soul

Maggie danced the scared little girl out of the closet
from under the bed
from behind closed doors
turned her loose on her drunken father’s face
his roaring mouth, his bleary eyes
danced so long on his violent fists
that flesh and bone and flowing blood
obliterated fear and pain no child should ever have to bear
danced on her mother’s going back
and going back and going back again
and kicked her under a rock at circle’s edge

danced the broken-down, lead-piped, asbestos-walled
rat-infested southside projects into splintered ruins
set them afire with lightning feet
and stirred the coals with her bones
like a woman gone mad
danced so hard and fast her clothes dissolved
with blood, sweat, and tears that puddled
the earth red, yellow, purple, green
danced off her skin like a butterfly’s cocoon
till only her soft raw spirit remained
anger danced out, madness revealed
shattered dreams strewn about
like broken glass on the ground

the band stopped playing, the frenzy died
the circle of dancers grew quiet and calm
we tiptoed around puddles and razor-sharp dreams
picked up rags and charred bones to carry them home
then watched Maggie’s remains melt into thick golden butter
like tigers who raged in some long-ago tale

we ladled her rich smoothness into earthenware crock
carried her gently to our campsite fire
and when the moon disappeared
and dawn painted a new day
we spread her fat beauty on skillet-fried cornbread
and filled our hungry bellies with her essence
her goodness, her self undiluted

and these many years hence to this very day
when the full moon pulls and the music strikes up
Maggie sets us to dancing wherever we are
in forests, in bedrooms, in streets, in our graves
and we move with the rhythm
and give Maggie the praise

Glenda Breeden for The Poplar Grove Muse   (September 2008)