Isadora

I will speak to you

with the music of bare feet

heel, ball, tender arch

the slow rise from ankles

the stretch from calves

the relevé upwards

the shift to slow, slow

turns as an arm passes

through sunlight, golden

petals of fingers closing

and unfolding—

the arch

of the dancer, bridge

of vertebrae, filigree

of muscles stronger

than cables of steel

the curve of sex

a space enclosed

now opening—

a bow

drawn back, a wing

expanding, a wave

near breaking, nothing

that can be named.

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