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Imani Sims as The Alchemist

Character Biography

With poetry as ingredients, the Alchemist will drip poems into your years, onto your seats, and maybe even your back pockets ::wink::

Professional Bio

Imani Sims is a bourbon loving Seattle native who spun her first performance poem at the age of fourteen. She believes in the healing power of words and the transformational nuance of the human story. Imani works to empower youth and adults through various writing courses and interdisciplinary shows all over the nation. She is a 2016 Artist Trust and CityArtist Grant recipient, current Kitchen Sessions Curator: a performance art collaboration with Central District Forum for Arts and Ideas, Writer for On the Boards, 2016/2018 Gay City Arts Fellow and 2017 Center on Contemporary Arts Artist in Residence. Her book (A)live Heart is available on Sibling Rivalry Press.

 

Allure

She was perfect pitcher,
Cooled glass and ice center, 
Crystal all her own bounty:
Solid hammer, extended bat broken
Cam, when is delicate fist
Worth more than peacock tailed
Beauty fanned against face?

She is not safe.
No one is safe
From the break.

Her grandmother was a witchdoctor
seafoam green eyes and muddy skin
the earth shook when she spoke
islands out of the sea, a place called home.
She is not safe.
No one is safe
From the break.
The sun perched between her thighs
A gown of silk and spit sways against
The winds exhale, she asks the sky
To return her purple labia in exchange
For the low hum she remembers rattled
At moon once the sun burned out, but now
All she can hear is the whir and click of
Her unhinged ribs stringing themselves back
Together in the shape of an open mouth:

she will devour each star until rendered black.
She is not safe.
No one is safe
From the break.
Her daughter wears a crown around her neck
one lone dove in the palm of her hand
she names it after her father's fallen eyelash.
A bundle of sage burns at her feet
smoke twists towards her gathered ten,
she stops listening to her mother chewing heat
long enough to catch the birds last breath.
A copper leash patterned after still
heart of her grandmother’s dust swings
in mimic of smoke, proven ancestry.
She is still not safe.
We are still not safe
From the ache.

We form ourselves indigo diamonds
Anyway.