Paralysis

The gymnast with the red leotard runs freely
Like blood seeping, the yawn of life, she spreads
Out onto the floor into splits
That would hurt (would they?)

My legs do not
Comprehend the limber, dancing swinging limbs,
Awake at last, from this punishment.
This “impairment” I must not forget (how could I forget?)
My eyes loll over your leanings, nimble blood drop;

The strides attained by ferocious toes on tips,
The arms gulling gracefully over the elbows
And the quiver of that elastic band thigh
Without which the kick-leap would only be a distant possibility.

I have a longing to move as you do.
I stare down at these numb things
That only pardon, make rain checks, stir not.
I can it out the window and drivel in my own drool
Fantastic trick you’ll see me do someday.
Can the imagination make you fly?
I have often wondered why I am perched here, on this branch
From which I cannot embark
But only peek out for adventure,
Squint out at the unknown.

My legs
Have an ache to feel what they haven’t walked on yet.
This part of them does grow.
But there is no hurry here no fixed place
To return to for cover I have floundered here a long time
And it’s time to get on.
My hands clap
Loudly for the drop of red. She is my hero.

* * *

She’s wheelchair-ridden and watches me
Run across the dance floor,
Like she hasn’t done it before, ever.
Like she wants to, real bad.
Her hands twiddle, fidget on the lap
Of her white wool sweater like
Two nervous birds flying fast over a cloud.

I look away and straddle the beam.
I may be a gymnast but inside this body
It is graceless resentment kicking
For a way out, starved hard by perfection.

I’m walking on these fixed beams, no others
To turn toes on or slope over backbone’s tail.
Drive instead these stiff knees home
And park the hallowed hips of fatigue
In their couch garage, sounds fine.
I’ll give them a shake but nothing’ll fall out-
They’re dusty. Dead inwards, dirty and swollen.

I am a mere marionette, trained well
And overdone by these trappings of beauty;
Slick muscles bind my bile of green envy for the dead
That rest in graveyards, their souls stirred by sun and moon,
Universe their entire roaming ground.

Her silver wheelchair glare shines
In my eyes and I look at
Her shriveled legs, noticing only their repose;
They move for no one, not even
For medals.
My tired eyes close.