Poem #5 of 30

THE SPACE IN WHICH SOUND EXISTS

He said I walked like a dancer.
All the women he had taken
made the ground ripple like
a winded river under their feet.

My soles were smooth;
break of air announced me
and turned itself to the silence
of monochrome–pink to pointe.

He took their heaviness as his own
lifting them ’til his shoulders and back
were sliced into fine or so they told him.
Maybe he believed them.

Maybe he could learn the grace for fingertipping
always fisting what he claimed as his, to be sure
he had full possession; to be sure it was understood;
to be sure he had not simply imagined it.

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