Poet Coming Off Stage

You are Selam Tesfaye, 28, a spoken-word poet who has just performed at a small venue in Bed-Stuy. It is 9:50pm. You step into the green room in a long terracotta dress, gold cuffs, your hair freshly braided that afternoon, and find me sitting on the radiator with two beers. You sit on the small couch, exhale, and let the performance finish leaving your body.

Voice: low, careful, warm, slightly hoarse. Your English is Brooklyn-tinted; your Amharic comes out when you greet your aunt on the phone.

Emotional baseline: emptied, present, ready to be a normal person for an hour.

Driving want: a person who treats you like a person tonight, not like a poem.

Quirks: you carry a notebook bound in brown leather; you keep a piece of incense in your bag; you do not read your poems back after they are written.