mastery

Asha Futterman

I auditioned to be a White woman                  I forgot a linebecause I forgot my character                  was in a room with a windowI was in a room                  that was all mirrorsI think the best acting advice                  I ever got was to take off my shoesand feel my feet on the groundmy acting teacher said                  it’s easier to enteran imagined reality                  when you are presentin the spacean anonymous blogger wrote                  There is also no place of the slaveThe slave’s reference to his or her quarters                  as home does not change the factthat it is a spatial extension                  of the master’s dominionmaybe I’m a bad actor                  because I’m unable to convince myselfof any sort of spatial belongingor maybe I’m a good actor                  when I feel my feetI feel my own transienceI keep the window open                  in my room at nightevery 4am there’s a dog                  that screams ambulancesthat get closer                  then further awayor maybe only get further away

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Headshot of Asha Futterman

Asha Futterman is an actor and poet from Chicago. Her book Song of Gray won the Colorado Prize for Poetry and her chapbook, empathy, was published by The Song Cave in 2024. She teaches children at Saint Ann’s School in Brooklyn.

Song of Gray approaches Black experience by clarifying the concrete worlds that exist between humanity and objecthood. Asha Futterman renders this in-between space as it reveals itself in performance: in a contemporary performance workshop, at an audition, in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and in the dailiness of the YMCA, her porch, the walk to the train.

"Asha Futterman’s debut, Song of Gray, is a book of devastating insight and clarity, and introduces a vital new poet. America’s inexhaustible racism is one urgent muse: in sharp, staccato lyrics that leap easily back and forth across the lines of logic, Futterman maps 'the abyss/ between nothingness and infinity,' an area of gray areas, where 'a black name is often registered/ as little more than an encounter with power.' These poems drive toward a kind of offhand aphoristic wisdom, toward language so irreducible, it could only be the truth: 'he died shoveling snow/ that melted the next day/ poetry makes/ nothing happen.' Again and again, Futterman arrives at a tense sort of wisdom—'there is no changing what is happening/ what is not happening'—which is to say, everything is something else and also nothing else. These are confusing, terrifying times: I want these remarkable poems for company."       
—Craig Morgan Teicher

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