The dancer swoons, marionette
nodding in an ecstasy of praise.
You feel it
in your body’s most real space:
below the rib and rabbit of the heart,
above the acrid acid of demand,
closer to the spine.
Some need in you slides home
as if Eve found a way back in
to Adam, the two now simply bone
again. I see you give,
rope in the bridge of you relax
without the strain of passing,
not taut nor studied, just afloat
toward trust that none of us can name.
The dancer spins,
knowing she is safe
this close to the edge.