BUTTERMILK

I am the debutante’s offspring.

Streaks of marigold and straw.

My Grandmother once said to me,

“Your cadence, your tongue,

Must mimic a rosewater ellipsis.

It must linger.”

We are the modern-day courtesans.

The muses from Xanadu.

Bathing in the buttermilk,

Poured from a white porcelain pitcher.

A southern delight.

I am a figment of your imagination.

The sensation of fingertip on rose petal.

The unthreatening presence,

That lingers in your grace.

But in reality,

Or something like it,

I am just a dancer.

Living day to day,

Leotard over breast,

On the subways of New York.

I was taught quite young,

How a lady speaks,

Without saying a word.

You don’t have to tell me,

That I have broken the mold.

I already know.

The book that I learned from,

“The Language of Flowers”,

Was written by Sheila Pickles,

In 1989.

The Miss Sheila who taught me how to arabesque,

Ended her professional dance career,

In 1972.

To this day,

Nothing quite compares to the moment,

When she positioned me center stage.

My pointe shoes were colored peach,

And the rouge of my cheeks,

Matched them perfectly,

On opening day.

We performed the Tarantella,

Beginning in a V formation.

Corseted, red and green.

In the grand ballroom,

Underneath the crystal chandelier.

As we finished,

The crowds,

They threw red,

Long stem roses at our feet.

I picked one up,

And placed it between my teeth.

“Passion,”

I thought.

“They want passion.”

Months earlier,

I sat in the study,

At the estate on 108th Avenue.

“Recite to me, dear one,

The meanings,

Of the colors,

Of the rose,”

My grandmother demanded.

I began, meekly:

“Red is for passion,

Blush, for first emotions of love,

Yellow for friendship and remembrance,

And white,

For a love that is spiritual.”

Many an afternoon was dedicated,

To southern etiquette,

The symbols of beauty,

And improving my posture,

A book balanced on my blonde head.

These are the makings of a woman,

In the upper echelon.

A woman whose art,

Is found in her restraint.

The skillset of the demure woman,

Can only be taught,

By studying the most delicate of flowers.

But I had a question.

“The Marigold is oh, so sunny,

In its disposition,

And so robust,

In its form.

Why then is it a symbol for death?

Are there other symbols, Grandmother?

For death?”

Through the beginnings of my dance career,

I received two pieces of advice.

The first,

Being ‘bend so that you do not break’,

And the second,

Being ‘A hint of evil does wonders for the art form.’

I listened,

And moved from the oil money territory,

Of deep Texas,

To a salted soda cracker box,

In Brooklyn.

But my buttermilk would never go completely sour.

I would remain pure and sweet.

“A being of moonlight and cream.”

That’s what you said to me when you found me in the village.

The mink coat I wore,

I bought second hand in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.

It used to belong to someone else’s Grandmother.

The mink coat that you wore,

Belonged to yours.

We were on the naked intersection.

The two tea roses,

In the one bouquet,

Atop the front desk,

Of the Chelsea hotel.

Blooming for all the wrong reasons,

And the fairest of the seasons.

Amongst the baby’s breath,

And the folly.

We were dreaming of men tremendous in stature.

Reminiscing about the times,

When we had our own.

The marksman of the cotillion,

And the king of Buckaroo Ball.

How the Blue Waltz from their mouths,

Was on our pressure points.

And how we allowed it to decant.

But that was all before.

And so we set sail to Coney Island,

On a ship named Susie Q.

The look I gave you was telling.

Yours, in return,

Knowing.

And from your silk garter,

Underneath the petticoats of splendor,

Appeared your golden flask,

Filled with a buttermilk liqueur.

We could see the heat,

The blurred mirage on the horizon.

There was HP-5 in the film compartment,

And visions of Suavies Island on the deck.

The young bucks,

They came out of their cages.

And they asked, quite desperately,

For the directions to our hearts.

After a simultaneous drag,

From French cigarettes,

We pointed them all,

To the ocean.

You are the toast of New York.

Celebrated throughout the generations,

Via streets echoing ragtime jazz.

You were a cocktail waitress back then.

Throwing your pearls,

Not before swine,

But before the Wallstreet banshee’s,

With the most overflowing of wallets.

A fine dining hustler.

And I was the Boutonniere on your lapel,

Reminding you that traditions,

Sometimes,

Were meant to be broken.

In the back of a taxi,

On New Year’s Eve.

We carried Champagne from the wine cellar,

Underneath our mink.

We were cackling,

The witches of the Alamo,

Out of our elements.

High.

The driver asked for our destination.

We exclaimed,

“To Mercury!”

We were speaking the language,

Of the wildflowers now.

Vibrational.

Transcendent.

This really is what makes us girls.

We were suffering,

From a horrible case of root rot.

One the botanists,

Could never explain.

For you, it was,

A witnessing of the decay,

Of a love that,

Sent the Kachina’s to the rooftops,

On the night of your conception.

And for me, it was,

A witnessing of the decay,

Of the beings who had conceived me.

For I am the daughter of Rage.

He would never speak,

The language of flowers,

From his final resting place.

And neither would the perfected loveliness,

Of the Camellia’s that drove him mad.

But we knew what love was.

We were carved,

From the same block, you and I.

It is the demi plie,

The bread and butter,

The basics,

The sustenance,

Of the soul.

We fell asleep each night,

To the riverbed sirens.

The lights of Times Square,

Had replaced La Bella Luna.

We were known in the speakeasy circuit,

As a package deal.

You performed under the name Ambrosia Michaels,

And kept a bottle of Chanel No5,

On the blues piano.

It aided the alto fingering.

I kept desert poppies,

Pinned to the tulle I danced in,

And violets pinned to my furs.

We were the modern-day vaudeville,

Swimming underground.

Carrying our floral hat boxes,

Full of our accoutrements,

On the A train,

To Manhattan.

To them, we were a local favorite.

An offering that was never on the menu.

If you knew,

You just knew.

My pointe shoes were blood colored at last.

And the lacquer on my lips,

Matched them perfectly,

On our opening day.

We had become them.

Flightless in their disdain,

And their bewitching.

The quail and the kakapo,

Of the Marsh.

The lonestars were out yonder,

And I was a civilized lady,

When it was convenient.

I’m afraid I danced,

Until I turned blue.

Because I wished to embody the cornflower,

And all of her delicacy.

Through the primal act,

Of performing,

The dance of the velveteen belles,

Of New York.

And where are we now?

We’re on Eighth street.

Pounding the cobblestone,

In soft, Italian leather.

Water spotted, almost ruined.

Because freedom,

Is jumping into the puddles,

Of the holy water,

And the buttermilk,

Uncaring.

I learned that from you.

The people of our city,

Have flower mounds under tongue.

And in the blue,

Behind their eyelids.

Because we are the indigo children.

And they speak of us often.

Of our arts and our leisure.

We are forever stamped,

In the passport,

Of the history,

Of death and rebirth.

What they love about us,

Is our lingering in frivolity.

Our return to analog.

Our floral, syllabic homage,

To the divine.

Our repeating praise of Delphine.

We aren’t as crazy as sixth street,

But we’re close.

We can smell the smoke of Winter,

Before it is real.

We can feel the chest fluttering,

Soul excitement,

Of our evening show.

“Introducing,

Ambrosia Michaels,

And Violet Crawford.

But you can call her,

Buttermilk.

Please,

Ladies and Gentlemen,

Deliver them from evil.”