When the Pit Opens

From behind the veil of vog, the sun
beat down on us as our footsteps
had the pastureland summer grasses.

I slipped into the spaces in-between
the standing crowd, into a melange
of loitering funk and musk.

The lead’s words drown in the crowd’s
answering cheer. In the following
hush, a walking bassline
and beating drums kickstart
the hurricane of moshers, stomping
counterclockwise on the offbeat
of guitar skank and horn chop.
The band’s brass swagger into the sun,
all bright tones and shining.

I am blindsided by the center and cannot
hold against the young and vicious.
Pogo, bounce, push, shove, and slam.
An errant elbow to my temple ignites
fireworks, exploding behind my eyes.

I stagger into helping, hands
hold fast to my arms and shirt.
Jogging moshers will not let me
fall in the pit, to be trampled.

I match the rhythm of their strides
and their hands release me. I
whirl past the center churn an arm’s
span, a body’s length away.
Music feeds our revolutions—round
and round, we run. The crescendo
crashes over us in a climatic chord.