My Mother on Sparrows & Other Things of Song

I don’t dance. You shouldn’t either. There are purposes
for the body, and that — that, that, that — is not one of them.
There is pleasure in these pages, song and psalm and verse
but that is not the thing we come to these books for.
If our fingers rest a moment, trembling, to the ripe vowels,
it is only because we are tired and weak and weary.
There are stories for a reason. Those wings melted.
That beak broken. Those red shoes that danced
that girl to death. Imagine what it was like, caught
in that whirling twirling music, trapped inside that
spin of movement, sweating, aching, mouth open
to exhale small quiet sounds of agony, unable to
stop until you died. Just imagine.



Image: Taken with iPhone.
Words written on the treadmill desk.
Time Taken 3 minutes.
Brain cranky.

This entry was published on May 14, 2012 at 7:49 pm and is filed under May, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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