Once when I was a dancer I felt it,
The pointe shoe chorus of snowflakes
Holding my invisible place, corporeal zero,
Every gesture a murmuration of birds
Black smog beauty, a rush of unity
We practiced diligently to achieve.
I should know I am a Scot—
Tightfisted heart holding its
Purse strings afraid and unknown
But beauty loosens me to Irish spendthrift
Debts owed to every gift of line
Those of words and of decoration.
But the heart is alone, smelling of
Kombacha mother and cave air
A muscle clutching just above the
Black pit of a primal stomach
so romantic as to be ridiculous
if only not so essential.
You are the point where I turn back
Again prodigal, unapologetic
The proverbs made new
Different characters, outcomes
Your body the feast
Your heart the sullen brother, lurking.
Here the horizon turns on its head
Shakes down the swollen rain
Like candy from a papier mache hole,
Gaping, pouring deluge
The washout drowning
No nourishment holding to the roots.
A heart is made of mica and rubies;
Which forms the wall and which
The liquid, what is the process
Of hardening, which of giving?
Where is the transformation complete
Or is there ever a chance for reversal?