Music Prose Poem One
Boston. Sixth row. Center seats. Jagger struts his skinny body across the stage, top hat tilted, his American flag cape waving behind him. The crowd rises as one, my brother in law to my left, two years back from Nam but not really back. My husband stands to my right, mouth moving to the music, feet tapping. We clasp hands in the thrill of the moment, joy tumbling out of the air around us, and come together in that single space music brings us to, untethered from the distance growing over these years since his own Navy time in Nam. Mick’s wide open, big lipped mouth sings us back to that time when love was the glue we thought would never tear. Maybe it just needed more nights like this, the deft stitch of Can’t Get No pulsing in our ears. The crowd never sits. My feet ache but I don’t care. We scream MORE after the encore, throats dry, hearts pounding. Flushed with excitement we finally walk out into the still throbbing night holding hands.
The poems of Pris Campbell have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including PoetsArtists, Rusty Truck, Bicycle Review, Chiron Review, and Outlaw Poetry Network. The Small Press has published eight collections of her poetry and Clemson University Press a collaboration with Scott Owens. When The Wolves Come After You, with Michael Parker, from Goss Publications and Squalls on the Horizon, a book of tanka, from Nixes Mate and My Southern Childhood are her most recent small press books. A former Clinical Psychologist, sailor and bicyclist until sidelined by ME/CFS in 1990, she makes her home in the Greater West Palm Beach, Florida, with her husband.