That Tuesday evening, once I closed the video chat, I sent an email to the professor about joining the Poetry in Performance class. I received an enthused reply the next morning, which I wasn't able to do anything about until Wednesday evening, but I started the online equivalent of the paperwork as soon as I could. The email chain continued back and forth a short while, and even though I hadn't been formally accepted into the course I was welcome to start attending. I'd already missed the first class, of course, and there were only going to be thirteen in all, so it was best I catch up as quickly as I could.

The actual classroom, so to speak, was a cozy meeting room on the main floor of the Theatrical Arts building. Several soft, small chairs sat around the periphery of the space, doing nothing much in particular but showing their age. The style—along with the lumps, tears, missing stitches, and stuffing peeking through—suggested that they were older than I was. The various shades of brown they were in didn't match at all. The heavy door and enclosed, windowless space spoke of a certain privacy, despite being near the main doors and the main office. At one side, looking almost carelessly out of place, was a large television on a wheeled stand. A couple closed cardboard boxes in the corner gave the impression that someone had not quite retrieved everything that they had been storing in the room, and the colour of the packing tape on those boxes suggested that they might have been forgotten for quite some time. There was a musk of age and cleaning supplies in the air, covering up the sense of breathing dust, and the soft hum of what was probably the heating system.

It felt familiar, comfortable, and yet it did so in a completely bizarre and alien way.

A very tall Black person I initially thought was Kamaiyah until I got a proper look sat in one of those strange chairs. I felt a little silly for even momentarily mistaking them for my friend; Kammy didn't wear glasses, didn't have dreadlocks or a soul patch dyed blue, and generally didn't wear such bright colours, or what looked to be a Scottish kilt in red-and-black plaid. Kammy was athletic, while this figure seemed a lot more scholarly, not out-of-shape as such but definitely no athlete. I wondered momentarily if this was one of the other students, then wondered who else would be in there, then remembered that I was fifteen minutes early so it was mildly surprising that anyone would have been in there.

They closed their heavy book and got to their feet as I closed the door. "Sorry," they said, speaking in thick Scottish brogue and with the slow, deliberate pace of someone who's very used to having their accent misunderstood, "there's a class here in a few minutes—oh! unless you're the new one comin' in?"

I nodded and resisted the urge to respond with a cheerful 'Aye.' "Yep. You're Doctor MacLeod?"

"Yeah, that's me." Their smile was bright. "Feel free to call me Todd." I could understand why Rita liked them. They seemed extremely genuine. "It's lovely to have an actual poet in here, most of the students approach this class from the performance end, but there's usually one or two writers. Did na' have one this year 'til ye sent me a message! Any trouble with the admin gettin' into the course?"

"It's underway," I said honestly. "It's been no real trouble, at least so far."

"Well, may it continue to be so," they said, indicating one of the chairs with a gentle wave. I took the hint and sat. "This isn't the most luxurious of spaces, but I feel it's better to be here than in a larger room when we're such a wee group, and the comfortable seats are much nicer than the usual desks. It can make laptop use a tad precarious, but I've had few complaints, and we can find ourselves a small table or two if it's necessary."

I took a little breath of the air, shifted a bit in the slightly uneven seat. "Yeah, I can see it. It feels... homey, I guess. But also kind of like a corporate boardroom?" I shrugged.

Doctor MacLeod—Todd—laughed. "Aye, yeah, it's an unusual place for such a study, but it's also appropriate for what's kind of an unusual course, too. Plus the space is mostly modular, it adapts to our needs, even if it's small. So what sort of poetry do ye write?"

Sort? I'd never even really thought about it. "Like, influences? I mean, I draw from all sorts of things. I... even sometimes it comes out mostly as prose, y'know? But I call myself a poet."

Todd nodded. "Sure I can understand that. So, ah, do you write for people to read it? Aloud? Or to see it, like is there a pictorial or visual aspect?"

I thought of the picture of the flames on my desk, and Azure's almost off-handed comment about it looking nice. "I often draw as part of my creative process, but I think they're meant to be... to be heard, I guess. Or maybe read? I dunno, it's... I've only started reciting things like a couple weeks ago, and I'm not sure if my older work is really built for that. I'm kind of fascinated by wordplay, a bit, and repetition?"

"Ah, so maybe something... perhaps prayerful? Meditative?"

"Not intentionally, at least not until I started to give little... performances, I guess? Readings? I like the way repetition feels and flows."

They nodded again. "That's not too uncommon for poets, it turns out. There's a certain... curiosity, I suppose, historically, with the way the language sounds when it's repeated o'er and o'er. Even that, right? 'O'er and o'er.' And it's interesting how even through different eras and cultures some aspects of poetry still continue to come up again and again—look at that, repeating myself once more!—even as the use of language differs from place to place."

I had taken a few courses in poetry and general writings of other parts of the world, current and historical; while my focus was on English, it was extremely valuable having other cultural perspectives, especially how creators in other languages treated meter, rhythm, and things like rhyme and alliteration. "Is there where I'm supposed to talk about Robert Burns?"

They roared with laughter. "Aye, yer expectin' me to shout out sommat in central Scots, just because I'm from Glasgow? 'O wad some Power the giftie gie us, To see oursels as ithers see us,' indeed!"

I flushed a bit under the gentle mockery. "I always liked 'To a Louse,'" I said, identifying the lines they'd quoted.

"Ah, for sure, it's nae bad, but... It's so old. I've a taste for more modern verse. I've no objection to the likes of Burns, or Shakespeare, or Molière or Dante or Milton, but more a great love for the Scottish Renaissance of the last hundred years or so, and indeed for some of the modern African poets—and yes, for some of the locals, present and past. I live with a bit of a post-Romantic obsession, not so much the pre-Romantics, or the Romantics themselves for that matter. Which," they added with a smirk, "you might appreciate as a poet who's currently writing."

I was about to reply when the door opened, and a collection of people made their way into the room. A tall, slim, pale blonde woman led the way, looking somewhat ethereal, even ghost-like, and she held the door open for an older, frail-looking silver-haired woman in a motorized wheelchair whose gestures in controlling the device were somewhat large and uncoordinated. A small, jittery, clean-shaven Asian man came in after, giving me a suspicious look as he took a chair, and then a very plain man whose entire aesthetic said 'student,' between the large glasses, messy hair, overstuffed backpack, and slightly distracted affect. Next in the line was a girl in full on goth gear, distressed jeans and combat boots, tight black t-shirt with a band logo on it, uneven cut to her hair, and several bits of steel jewelry in different parts of her face. Finally, bringing up the rear, a man who might have been the twin of the first woman—tall, slim, pale, and blonde, even with similar facial features. Everyone took a seat (except the wheelchair user, who parked herself in a gap between chairs) and Doctor MacLeod stood.

"Good evening, everyone," Todd said, and paused for a moment for everyone to reply. "We've a new member of our little seminar joining us today," they said, indicating me, "and I've made arrangements for our final projects. Since there's now seven of us, it might make the timing a bit more challenging, but I've booked the rooms and confirmed the times. All that's left is this." He held up a small stack of papers. "Return these in person to my office by Monday night, it's important, alright?"

I looked at the page they handed out as they walked around the room. It was a simple single-page chart, showing four times of day (eight thirty, noon, three thirty, seven) and six days in December. "The dates," Todd continued as he moved around the room, "are the last class and the five days before it. In each square, I need you to put whether you will be not available, available to attend, or available to present. Those time slots are three-hour spots. We'll talk more about it in a bit."

The woman in the wheelchair raised her hand.

"Yes, Kat?" Todd asked.

Her voice was hesitant, and difficult to understand, and the effort of speaking made her whole body twitch as she went. "What will... the project... the last project be?"

"Ah, good, yes. That, and how you'll be graded, and why I need your attendance, will be what we're talking about in general in the first half of the seminar, after we see your first presentations." The teacher turned to me. "We'll forgive you not having something ready this week," they said graciously. "Every week we start the seminar with a presentation of a poem and a discussion of the poems, usually I give them a theme. My only requirement this week was that it couldn't be in your usual style of performance." He looked back to the rest of the room. "Who'd like to go first?"

Kat raised her hand first. "Let... let me... get me out of... everyone's way," she said with a laugh at herself.

Todd looked around the room, and no one objected. "And Kat, we agreed this week that you would use your own voice to deliver the poem."

"Yes, and... I kept it... short," she said, breathily, moving her chair to the middle of the room.

Once more turning to me and explaining, Todd said, "Kat's usual means of creativity is to make digital imagery or animation with poetry embedded, so doing a live reading—"

"Is not..." Kat interrupted, "what I... usually do."

Todd smiled and made a sweeping motion with their hand. "The floor is yours."

And despite her limitations, Kat seemed to flourish in that space. Her slow speech seemed less hesitant and more rhythmic, as though it was an intentional feature of her presentation, or more likely that she had deliberately paced her reading around her challenges. I hadn't realized how interested I must have looked until she finished her slow recitation, we all gave polite applause, and Todd looked to me and said, "You seem like you have something to say. We usually open the floor after a presentation, why don't you have the first comment?"

I flushed. "Oh. I was just... I was so taken in. It was..." I swallowed, feeling a bit put on the spot. "Sorry, I should be better at this I guess, huh. Um, Kat, yeah?"

Kat nodded haltingly. "That's right."

"Thanks, okay. I had the privilege of studying this poet last year in the 'Advocacy in Art' class, and I have to say, um... I couldn't really understand a lot of what she had been trying to relate, as a woman with disability. And of course we only had two weeks of studying poetry, so there was a lot more of like, folk songs, and pamphlets and short stories, but, uh, as someone without disability really myself, uh... Sorry, I'm finding it hard to say what I want without being offensive," I laughed nervously. The understanding smiles of everyone in the room didn't help. "Let's just say, uh, that it's very, very different hearing that from the voice of a person in a wheelchair than it is just... reading it. Much more impactful."

"Thank you," Kat said, sounding pleased.

"That's why I run this course," Todd said, sounding a little like an advocate themself. "Poetry is too often studied, dissected, and left dead on the page. But like with a character in a play, a poem is usually meant to be heard, or seen, or... or something other than just read. And I'll stop there, you're all already in the class, you don't need me repeating what it's about," they chuckled.

I liked them. They were friendly, welcoming, personable, good looking... I broke my gaze and started paying attention to the goings-on in the little classroom.

The others in the class started their commentary, too, building on what I'd said or just adding their own mostly-positive opinions. I knew there was a participation element to the class, and I sort of gathered from the conversation that we were all expected to deliver at least a constructive comment. Kat, meanwhile, seemed to beam at the attention, but also to shrink back from compliments, including my own.

The blonde who'd held the door for Kat earlier was the next up. She introduced herself, mostly to me, as Haven. And then she sang.

Her voice wasn't terrible, definitely not unlistenable, but it was clearly untrained. Rough, pitchy, unclear, and yet... beautifully raw for the poem she was presenting. She'd obviously put a lot of thought and a lot of work into the process, and even if the end result wasn't all that great tehnically, it was still very passionate and heartfelt. The poem itself was a hymn, I gathered, but it was also in French, and my Anglophone high-school-level basic grammar wasn't up to the task of some of the more flowery language.

I wasn't called on to comment first, fortunately, and I was able to think about my reply. The others clearly understood the poem more than I did, which was fine, it gave me more to relate to as I picked up on their comments. And all eyes ended up on me when there was no one left to speak, and all I could offer was a verbal shrug.

"I don't speak French," I started, "but, uh, I think I got the point of it? I'm not the best with religious songs, either."

Haven smiled kindly, said, "Thank you" in a tone that was almost as grateful as she gave to those who'd offered in-depth literary critiques. It felt very genuine in a heart-warming way. And I understood, in that moment, that here was an actor trying to get an audience to comprehend what she was saying through those barriers—a language we didn't speak, a cultural context we might not share, a medium she wasn't well-practiced in—and in my short summary, I told her that she'd succeeded.

I was starting to understand myself, why these performers had taken this course, and why Rita thought I ought to.

So it went with the others: the messy-haired, affable, student-coded James, who handed us a printout with a Shakespearean sonnet and then proceeded to give a two-minute silent physical exercise that was half mime, half clumsy interpretive dance, that had us all (including Todd, and including James himself) trying to hide our giggles; Meaghan, the goth-girl who also gave us a song, haunting and soaring in the manner of an opera singer (though again, without the skill) sharing her last minutes on earth; the ghostly male twin to Haven, named Oscar, who had us all close our eyes, and played readings of two competing poems on electronic devices; the suspicious, child-like Son, who simply stood stock-still and delivered Robert Frost in a military cadence. Each was so varied and different in their approaches. I felt a weird sort of imposter syndrome, partly because I didn't know what my approach ought to be, let alone decide on a performance that would be in opposition to that. I was glad that I was given a pass that week. And I did have opportunity to make useful and welcome comments, and everyone was appreciative of all of them.

I felt good, being there. I wondered if that sort of creative, supportive atmosphere was similar to what Rita experienced in her little artistic polycule. I kind of hoped it was; there was a possibility that I would be joining it, after all. Listening to Son speak, that started to sink it; I wanted to go somewhere other than back home, and joining up with Tempest and Lyric and the others would be somewhere other than back home, definitely. And if it meant being constantly in this sort of communally creative atmosphere, twenty-four seven... It was worth considering.

"Any final thoughts?" Todd asked me directly, shocking me out of my daydream.

"Ah! um... not really?" I replied. "Just that it was an interesting contrast, to hear Frost delivered like that. I normally hear his poetry read much more lyrically, and Son, it seemed like you deliberately took all the lyricism out of it? Like, I don't think that you just... didn't understand it, that was way too much to not be intentional, right?"

Son's expression didn't really shift much, still looking somewhat curious and untrusting, but he did nod. "Yes, I was trying to be very direct, seeing what the effect would be."

"Well, I think that worked, then," Todd said, as Son took his seat. "And before we continue to the next bit of class, I'd like to get people's own responses to the exercise. How was it, presenting your work in a new form? Let's go in order, and then I think we'll ask our new student what she thought of this all, yes? Let's begin with our animator."

Kat nodded and took a breath. "I'm... not used to... speaking in front of... people. This was... a different experience. Good."

"Haven?"

The pale woman frowned. "I don't think I like singing, but yeah, it was good to do, I guess."

Todd nodded. "James?"

The bespectacled would-be dancer laughed. "Not sure that I accomplished much but it was fun."

Todd laughed politely with him, then turned to the showy goth. "Meaghan?"

She shrugged. "Couldn't really think of a new form, so I sung in a way I don't usually."

"Alright, fair. Oscar?"

The tall, thin blond also shrugged. "I think I put more effort into the medium than the message."

"Mhmm, and Son?"

"Was fine," came the reply. "Interesting to think of something unmusically."

"Right." Todd stood up. "So, we'll take a few minutes now to discuss the future of the class, our final projects, and why you've got an unfilled schedule in your hands. We are seven students: four actors, one computer animator," they waved to Kat, "one music major," they nodded to Son, "and now, one actual, bona fide, legitimate poet in our midst." Their hand flourished towards me, and I flushed a bit. "We have eleven more sessions after today, and we have a course outline that demands participation and performance. My goal in demanding you explore new ways to present poetry is to expand your ideas of your own performances, so while you will be free, and encouraged, to continue that exploration, you will no more be required to do so.

"So your final projects. They will be performances. The schedule shows three-hour blocks of time. Your performance will be in the middle of those three hours. You'll have the space an hour before for setup and an hour after for tear down and cleanup. So if you sign up for eight-thirty, you will have from half-nine to half-ten to give your show, and until eleven-thirty to be completely out of the space. If you step outside these time limits by so much as a minute, you will be getting a zero for your preparation segment of the grade, so be aware of that. You do not need to fill the entire time, not by any means, but promptness and planning are part of performance. You will also be graded by me on effort. If your performance is a two-minute reading of a sonnet with no visual or audio effects, expect to fail. Beyond that, though, your grades will come from your commentary essays. You will not be graded on the performance itself; instead, you will be turning in to me as a final project seven reviews, one for each of the other performances. And yes, seven, I will be doing one myself, time permitting. Any questions?"

There was a general, thoughtful silence in the room. I felt a weird excitement in my gut I couldn't really understand, and the fire in the back of my skull met my momentary flush to start ideas brewing.

Kat lifted a hand, and didn't wait to be called on. "Can we... get help?"

"Aye, of course, you needn't do everything yourself!" Todd replied joyfully. "We'll have access to some of the backstage theatre students for lighting and sound cues, though they will have to be fairly simple, we can't simply reset the entire lighting grid for every one of your projects. And you can tap whoever you need for physical setup of whatever you like. Just know that you've an hour to set up and an hour to take down."

"Thank you."

"Right, anything else?" When no one said anything, Todd flipped his smartphone from his pants pocket. "Great, then we'll head to break five minutes early, and take twenty instead of fifteen, and we'll come back to talk about poetic performance of the romantic era."

The other students, and the instructor, filed out in a kind of awkward silence. I stayed seated, having no real intention to move. I had my water bottle with me, I didn't need to use the bathroom, and besides, I was comfortable.

I also wasn't alone. Kat stayed behind as well. She moved slightly closer, and took a breath to speak. "Wanted to say... thank you again... for your comments."

I nodded and smiled. "Thank you for your reading. It was very informative."

"Really, my pleasure," she said. "I look forward... to your poems."

I felt myself getting warm. "I look forward to sharing them." After a moment of silence, I asked, "So, how did you get here?"

Kat laughed. "You mean, ... 'Why is someone... old enough to be your mother... and stuck in a wheelchair... in this class,' right?"

I giggled back. "I wasn't going to say it, no, but I am curious."

She smirked at me. "You remind me... of my son. He's... about your age... same kind of humour..."

"Oh I hope you're not trying to fix me up!"

"Hah! No, no... I think... he'd be more interested... in the good doctor..." Kat winked. "Like you, I think."

I knew I was going red, then. "Caught me looking?"

"I don't... miss much." She took a deep breath and visibly calmed herself. "Answering... your question... I spent twenty-five years... working in infosec for... the feds. Nothing... nothing flashy, just... making sure internal... communications were secure. After..." She waved a hand. "You know... the virus and... all that, I found out... that working from home... was really the good life, so... when they insisted we go back to the office... I took early retirement." Kat took a deep breath. Despite her slow pace, she was a good storyteller. "I spent a year just... sort of hanging around... enjoying the rest... then I found this online... I guess it was a... an art gallery, and it... it just sparked something... deep in me... like a fire, something... connected me to the artist..."

I could hear it in her voice, that familiar tone, that familiar power. I wondered if Rita knew.

"That was... late spring," Kat continued. "I dove... into online tutorials... making images, making animations... my husband, bless him, doesn't... understand, but he supports me... and my kids think it's... hilarious, so..." She shrugged awkwardly. "I enrolled in... two evening classes, one... on more modern... computer programming since... my degree is probably... older than you..."—I couldn't help but smile—"and this one."

"Wow," I said, and meant it. "I mean, that's amazing. You must have so many stories."

"When you're... pushing sixty... you get stories... whether you were working... in government or not. Especially when you... raise three kids doing it." She chuckled. "So how 'bout you?"

"Me? Why am I here?"

Kat nodded.

"A friend recommended the course to me. I'm not an actor, not really, but for whatever reason the bug caught me and I've started just... reciting poetry. I don't know what else to tell you. I'm not even sure I understand it myself. But this course was here, and my friend knows the professor and suggested I take it. She can't, so..." I shrugged. "Here I am, I guess. It seems like a really good course, though."

"Yeah."

"So... I... hm..." I started awkwardly.

"You're curious... about the chair," she said.

"Uh, yeah, how did—"

"Everyone is curious!" She laughed. "Cerebral palsy, from birth. Used to get around... with two canes, but age... is a terrible thing. Didn't stop me from... being sole breadwinner for... my family, and raising... three great kids."

"Ah, okay."

"And I gotta say... since getting into making... images and stuff... my whole life has been... better. More alive. My husband's cooking tastes... better, stronger. Music sounds better. It feels kinda... dumb to be just... learning how to live... as a retiree in my late fifties... but here we are." Kat shrugged and smiled. "And here's me just... spilling my guts to a stranger."

"No, it's great, I'm loving hearing it."

"You're just... being nice."

"No, really! You seem like you've had a fascinating journey."

"Yeah I... I kinda have... but I don't get to tell... it much. And the kids in... in the computer class just... aren't as interested. And I don't get... out much, and my husband... and my kids have... all heard the stories already."

"I'm willing to bet they were there for most of them."

"Yep!" Kat grinned. "You really do remind me... of my son. Except you're prettier."

"Well, I hope my boyfriend agrees."

"Oh? You have a boyfriend?"

I nodded. "Uh, but it's been kind of impossibly quick," I admitted. "We haven't even known each other for a week yet."

"Wow, sounds like... you have stories, too."

"Uh huh, but most of mine are from this month, really. Well, I mean, not really. My life's history is one thing, but since getting back to school, everything's just been, I don't... I really don't know how to describe it. Right up to tonight, and probably right through to next year."

Kat nodded. "Sometimes we just have... those kinds of years."

"Well, have you ever fallen for someone so quick as... I mean, we barely know each other and we're already head over heels, you know?"

"Mhmm. There was a girl I met... just once, just one time... I was on a work trip, and... she was with a contractor. We met at the convention... gosh that's... more than twenty years ago now... anyway, yeah, instant chemistry, never... had that before, or since... And of course you know... how men are, when I... got home, my husband just... wanted to hear all the details!" She laughed loudly, and I couldn't help it, I joined in. I thought about my dormmates pressing me about my time with Manu.

"Your husband didn't mind?" I asked.

"Mind? Hon, when I was... on work trips, we had... an agreement. Neither of us took... advantage of it all that... much, but once in a while..." She met my eyes. "The key is... honesty, always. Trust, and be trustworthy. But just that once... it was like magic. So I can understand." There was a small pause as she thought about her next words. "I think maybe... we don't consider magic enough." She gave a short, bitter laugh. "Funny thing for an... I-T professional to say... right?"

"I guess, some, yeah. But I mean..." It was my turn to think. "My life lately has taught me to listen to any source of... um, let's say, spiritual wisdom, because I don't really have another good term for it."

"Uh huh. It's not a bad idea... to at least hear what... we have to say. Even an old fool like me."

"I don't think I could imagine you as a fool, Kat."

"I notice... you didn't contradict... 'old'." She grinned.

I grinned back. "Well, you are old enough to be my mother. Even if she's older than you, I think. I was a late addition to the family."

"Oh? Last kid?"

"Only kid. My mom went off her birth control when she thought she was hitting menopause, and..." I shrugged. "Here I am. I was a point of tension between my parents until they split. Now they're both remarried and I'm... well, I'm happy to be anywhere but there right now. No one can get along in my family, with anyone else."

"Oh no! That's awful. Well if you need a... surrogate mom, you can... talk to me."

That hit me hard for some reason, despite being said so casually. I was suddenly fighting back tears. Kat seemed to notice, and spread her arms, and I engaged in what was maybe the most physically awkward hug I'd ever participated in. I didn't know how to embrace her around her wheelchair. She didn't seem to care.

"Thank you," I said, standing back up.

"I've been a substitute... parent for a bunch of... my kids' friends. We're in kind of... conservative circles, so... some of them needed... someone to talk to who... was okay with them being... queer or trans or just... not getting along with their folks."

I sat in my chair again. "I've pretty much come to terms with my family situation. Dealt with it mostly alone. It was never... like, it was never throw me out of the house bad, or run away bad, just a constant simmering tension. My parents aren't abusive, just distant."

"Sometimes that can be... worse," Kat said sympathetically. "My mom was... like that. She was always... upset that something... so broken could have... come out from her. But, I survived. And I've had a good life... so far, and it's not... over yet!"

"I guess if I can fall in love over a weekend, I can find a substitute parent in an evening," I said with a smirk.

"I found life-changing... inspiration over the course of... an internet search, so... why not?"

"What did you see?"

Kat lifted her tablet. "Want a look?"

I knew what she was about to show me. "Sure."

And while the images didn't affect me, not like Tempest's music did, I could feel that same, familiar pull, that same fire, if somewhat less pronounced.

As the other students started to come back in, Kat said, "In case you want... to look her up... the artist's name is... Lyric Norman."