The Contortionist

Michael E. Strrosahl

 

Watching her bend jelly bones,
I am reminded
that I used to be flexible,
before finding myself stuck
to the same cement ways
I cursed in my father.

My knees creak with his baritone.
I hear him popping in my ankles
as I stand to applaud,
and she uncoils herself
to accept with a bow.

This poem was first published at Shadow Poetry (www.shadowpoetry.com)

 


Copyright 2006 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.

All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.

 

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