Intro
Years before I discovered a love of dance, I knew that I loved poetry. Poems that I wrote as a tween and teen are still stored in the pulse of my muscle memory. I’m sure they would be judged harshly by any objective measure, but my heart has never disowned them. By the time I found my way to dance, I had put down my pen and it was not until this past year that I realized how deeply connected these two loves are. After the death of my father, a friend talked me into attending a workshop about grief in creative writing. Participants were not required to write or share a poem, and I did not expect to do so. But one morning, after an in-class writing exercise, I woke up with sound and rhythm in my body. In the poem I was hearing, I felt my father’s presence for the first time since his death. I also felt how intimately related a pleasure in the sound, shape and rhythm of words is to the pleasures I have found in dance.
Butterflies
In the beginning there was lamplight
and brown corduroy.
There was sound
and rhythm
And blue sky in your voice:
“I meant to do my work today . . .
But a butterfly flitted across the field . . .”
In the middle there were smears of shit
half-eaten light bulbs
dolls with no heads.
By the side of the road
you explained
that I should not respond. I
was blue sky
and you
went back to work
and stayed there.
In the end work broke.
It left you smooth
your skin translucent.
You wandered
fingers clenched
through broken words
the pace of conversation an assault.
But there was sunlight now
and warmth on wood
and when we sat in stillness
your eyes
were full of blue.
Were there butterflies, I wondered?
Copyright © Kristin Boyce 2025. All rights reserved.
Bio
Kristin Boyce teaches philosophy at Vanderbilt University. She is a passionate lover of rabbits and cats, and an adult student of ballet.
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