2006 - Vol. 3, Issue 5

"Suites for the Modern Dancer"

"There is no ideal walk then. . ." —A. R. Ammons

1. double steel doors

SLAM: nosebleed. Ninth grade lunch is over and a dam has broken inside my head. The crimson–caramel unnavigable lake of me pours down my chin, purls inside my sleeves. I rush to my next class. If you are late, you are punished. My forearms are crusted with river mud. I stop briefly at the lav to scrub. Black turtlenecks do not show blood. Cold water, disintegrating towel, pink liquid soap that smells like diluted bleach. All during History I itch. My sleeves and arms try to sew a new skin between them. I didn't see it coming. There's a metaphor.

2. prostheses

The house lights dim. Gurneys are wheeled onto the stage. Dancers jump in from the wings like newly risen monsters. For this act they have borrowed bandaged glory. A professional orthotist designed these extra limbs and braces. They writhe, half robot, half wraith. Strings shriek. They move in slow motion so even I can see the intention, how bodies will haul their weight, asymmetrical, away from gravity's grip. Later the artist tells me the part she did not write, the second half, when the dancers throw down their crutches, dissolve into the correct amount of limbs. I don't say anything.

3. the belle of the ball

Other bodies receive such blithe choreography. Her hair unfurls like some exotic bird wing, like a river on fire. His cracked leather book bag fits under his arm just so. Their heels skip from pavement to curb, easy as breathing. Let's have a waltz. Teenage hands couple with their partner's back pockets. A hybrid, a hydra. The coffee shop spits neutral neural numbing jazz for them to sway to. Sweet lipped sullen boys with giant portfolio cases are plugged into their own private symphonies. Their baggy pants and curly sideburns rock out on the corner. I can't breathe. I can't move like this.

4. the bus doors explode

open and suck cold air in. The driver offers the scent of smoke, a Scottish brogue. Announces lady with a white cane coming off. Am I really her? Tap tap sweep a sea of passengers parts for me, but I am no queen or prophet. I would rather push through, feel their shoulders against mine, smell their perfume, their unwashed hair. Inside the bus shelter a man peers and squints, trying to decide if I can see him. I can, almost.

5. in case of inclement weather

Tap tap wind mashes my eyes into my head. It's January. Behind my lids, swirling tidepools of vitreous freeze. Tap tap wind–tears burn a path from duct to earlobe tap sweep tap the cane tip lodges in every sidewalk gash [wrench]. Still, remember, there's rhythm to this. My hips murmur under a gray woolen coat. And if I had to have an extra limb, why not this one, so long and slender, glowing when the light hits against it. The news guy says we have negative six degree air coming off the river sleet and freezing rain a three car pileup closed the Fort Pitt tunnel on the inbound side allow some extra time for travel tap sweep

6. denouement

I've collaged the handle. An entranced art major thinks I'm important enough to take off his sunglasses. He wants to hold my cane, to see my work with his eyes and fingers: Skulls, jewels, zebras, butterflies, bell tower. A teenage Virgin Mary kisses a cherub. A tiger lies in flowers. This boy stares straight into my eyes and says It looks like Heaven and Hell.

"Crows"

Mobility specialists have a set of strategies . . . for helping children with impairments gain independence in the real world. . . . Visually impaired children need to be placed in situations requiring them to solve problems. During mobility lessons students are placed in situations that require them to perceive and think.
—Institute for Innovative Blind Navigation

Each bead shines like an eye. Their glass sides click
together in the valley of his palm. He plucks and tosses.

As each one leaves his hand, it disappears. I hear them
ricochet off bile–yellow burlap walls, handprint turkeys,

finger paintings, loose–leaf haiku in stilted crayon.
Mr. Charlie says now pick them up. I suck my thumb,

ask how many. He refuses to tell. Then, the grind
and creak of a classroom door released. A scrawl of bodies,

vibrant, barely staying within the lines, sticky, curious.
I know because my own body is like this, but not.

They can cast their eyes in one direction, two beads
strung on a strand. They watch me operate; my eyes

shiver in their sockets, legs twist to protect my fragile
balance. Saliva rims their lips, incisors ready to incise.

Lithe bird–beast bodies dive to trap the shining things
swallowed by the corners of the kindergarten wing.

"MRI of Head"

The prescription was a sturdy bit of writing
with a jaunty upsweep and authoritative caps.

The doctor's hand so sure it pushed the ink
through the paper and onto the other side.

He was looking for, he said blithely, "a mass."
I was twenty–two. My family all bargained

with their various gods. I smoked a lot of weed.
I skipped a lot of class. I vanished whole weeks

from the calendar by simply not opening my eyes.
On the phone, my mother was a hive of bees,

their wordless nattering: They inject that blue dye
into you; it's horrible and needless and bad

for your kidneys and you better tell them you refuse
it. I imagined spongy labyrinths curled bright

against the computer screen. When she finally
stopped talking, all the tendrils went dim.

*

The nurse said: Lie back, we have to give you this IV.
Drowsy, I murmured: Mom said skip it. She said:

Dear we have to, strapped down my arm efficiently.
A blue road rose against the white sheet and disappeared

inside me. The tray, cold like a morgue, slowly motored
into the dark tunnel. The soothing staccato knock

and thump rocked me into dreamland until another
someone's endless chatter broke my trance: Start.

Stop. Rotate. Remove your limbs. Be still
so the doctors can explain and excavate. Be calm.

Just oscillate in bluegray space. Stick your back
to the ceiling. Don't envision extra parts of you.

Don't take all this sci–fi stuff seriously.
Seriously, it felt so good to lie down.