New York, New York, 1997- I’d chosen to travel that summer, to be alone. I thought I didn’t know why. I was wrong.
Sometimes we just don’t want to listen to what we need to know, to what we need to do next. It’s only when we push ourselves till we’re exhausted we hear- then we’re finally ready.
I dance for the words
I can’t find-
Filled with longing lost in summer wounds,
Fury and forgiveness grown impatient.
I dance for the grace
That’s abandoned me,
And I’ll keep dancing
Till I can’t anymore-
Till I slip and fall
On puddle’d tears and sweat-
Till the floor’s
More familiar than air-
Till the grit and dust
Streaking my face
Grinds and sculpts
Another dancer behind my eyes-
An imagined dancer,
Breathing slow and knowing words
Volumes of shoulder, hand, hip and thigh
Into mere footnotes and footsteps
In an empty studio.
I dance to wait
For an older soul to voice and shatter
This frenzied hardness out of me.
I dance for those words-
To say those words out loud…
And then I’ll stop, then I’ll cry.
© Willow Marie Power- 1997