I wanted to dance.
To wrap my toes
in Japanese silk.
Tufts of doe down
to break the grace
of a pirouette.
But I’m beset
by that boy
who once was me.
His dead weight
crushes any chance
for a pulse here.
How can it be
I still harbor him?
This tremor in my throat.
this tremble, palpatation.
How to purge
these dwarfed impulses
these stillborn things
moving inside of me.
As if an explication
of his greedy mourning
would do any good.
But not even this poem
has the capacity
to resist despair.