“Think that you have smoke in your stomach” – Butoh choreographer
Think your lungs a forest cleared.
Your breath winged
as if it had a better place to go
or just discovered that all this
time the outside door to the basement
has been unbolted and
here you are.
Think your body an amulet on the doorpost.
The body still loyal to the marriage
although it seems at times to want
to run away with someone younger
or hopes that giving you so much
trouble you’ll be the first to leave.
Think a waterspout up the spine.
Your head just a head.
Think that the official envelope
you’ll prop unopened against
the farthest wall of the living room
and will stare so long at
doesn’t contain papers served
or a notice of eviction.
It’s a love letter.
As if you’re young again
mud between toes
all of you hopping
as if you were happy.