The Night of the Concert

The Night of the Concert

by Andy Mitchell

You should have seen her

the night of the concert.

Any other time  

she sort of mumbles (like me)

humming to herself, smiling

hesitantly. But if

you’d seen her

the night of the concert

dancing alone

in front of the stage –

it was like her own

private Woodstock –

for all to see, as if no one could,

you would know, or at least have

seen, the true Merry (that’s how

she spells her name)

filled to the brim

with a blues man’s strumming

as though she were a Fender

Strat and he

was Hendrix himself

restringing her backwards,

playing her upside down –

setting her on fire!

For a tongue of flame was she

the night of the concert.

I wish you could have seen it:

the blues man laying down

his licks; the crowd sitting

politely in the park;

and Merry,

in between them,

braided and tie-dyed

in her own world, dancing

the way a deaf woman might

speak in tongues, there in

the aisles of her sanctuary, getting

her fix.  

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