Going, going, gone?

When we're young they tell us girls

don't give it away, well

here I am and

I'm giving it away

--yeah baby,

cookies coolin' on a plate

and I'm just lettin' it go

warm and wafting out the window

open just a crack,

I let it out as I've let it in

though at some point

the balance shifts.

So I lean through the weathered frame

and wave to the woman with muscular thighs who

picks dried leaves off the ground

as an excuse to stretch,

and I wonder if all of that,

if any of that,

makes a solitary shred of difference

now that my tendons feel tighter than

over wound violin strings

about to snap.

Back in the corner by the pianist who

between combinations

writes poems for dancers

I search for the rosin box of

amber crystals and yellow dust

to coat my shoes as I dance

toward the point that collapses on itself

and disappears in the distance

like a puff of blue smoke,

like lavender haze on the horizon,

like a silver vapor trail unspooling

across the evening sky.

- C. Healy (12/2019)

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