Simple this: physics,
for a dancer,
is death: a body
at rest will stay at rest.
And
all the talent I have
is in these feet.
I turn on my side
and fold
into myself
like a concertina.
In fetal position,
I bow
to the wisdom
stored in my toes.
I am my own Yogi,
pushing past-participles aside
in favor of lightning
pain. A simple answer
on a cold day.
Redemptive suffering -
the new opiate
of the masses.
Catholic chic,
it is called.
Sort of Tibetan light.
No saffron robes,
and you keep your hair
flowing like gypsy music
and candle wax.
I hold fast;
movements,
like wrens,
have taken leave
sixty-three seasons ago,
with Webster's dictionary.
I am running
out of words
and songs
and sounds.
Silence is a tingling
in these toes, a ceasing
of circulation and sure-footedness;
my doctors disagree: noise.
Maya Angelou says
Billie Holiday sang
every song as if
she had just written it
that morning. Oh,
my toes do not utter
a sound;
they do not write.
They sleep.
Death is the absence
of motion;
I am one tenth there.
I am more,
but I don't like to
count the real numbers.
Pain is such
a sensible companion
for the body
at rest.
Simple: life:
when you do the math.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.