Dog Trapeze Poem
The dog spills coffee
onto the blank wood of the old bench.
I dream trapeze.
Hoist my hips up to the high bar
rest on my pelvis
flip and hang
grow still
as the the kernel before it pops.
One arm holds the weight of my body
while the other curves and reaches back.
Back into summer.
When I am beautiful. Before pretty.
Strong little girl muscles that can climb
and hold on anywhere.
Full gap in teeth, wild raving hair
and howling whenever
the silence needs reminding.
That summer Jackie told her boyfriend
to put his tongue in my mouth.
He pushed his lips hard against my teeth,
so that I would know that I had no choice.
Forced into a kiss before, I have finished climbing,
before I knew the word for betrayal
and that there was no one there to tell,
no one to ask if I could get pregnant from his tongue.
This dog won’t let me write
Nuzzles my arm as it moves.
My hips hold other secrets —
growing something heavy that hurts.
I hang on, wait for the next move.
That man from nowhere pushing
his stupid body on mine so that
there is no room for me and
I have to vacate my skin and muscle —
wait till he is finished
with his sloppy selfish pumping.
My body is a parked car
he steals the keys to.
Really my body is a sacred jar for my soul fire.
Only I have never heard this.
My job is to shut up.
My job is to never tell.
My job is to drive him home.
Inverted
On the ivory ropes
With the brilliant velvet orange elbows
I climb higher
let my weight guide my body.
Dog sleeps now.
Breath slows.
Body talks.
Bones tell
muscles
that tell skin
that tell eyes
that tell tears.
See my book of poetry on Amazon called The Glass Train…
