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Poetry Dance

written by: Christina Strigas

@christinastriga

You ask me to do the poetry dance

as my hands are tied but never free

diving into a dangerous chance

to unwind the words of the sea

make them twirl

bend to our whim

let the pain unfurl

for I am always aching for him

that illusion of hope

living on the edge of Broadway

refusing to hand over that rope

mixing up my night with my day

my poems with reality.

Let us dance and swallow our moving words

like we did on scraped knees way back when

embrace the sky, fly like birds

for we are far to gaze into each others’ eyes

too close to sleep a whole night through

toss and turn me with burning lies.

I am not like them. I do not scrub

bathtubs until I am heart broken.

I do eat men while I walk to the cafe.

I do not see dust

I see poetry.

I like the rhymes

distracted by the underlying chimes.

I am in love with the man

who stole my heart

yet the dance in my soul

stops moving its feet.

I read all the dead poets

it is the only way I can have my coffee

they are my cream and sugar

the poets that live

try

but those folded (yellowed) pages

in my Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry

are my only salvation

from men such as you

who can eat me alive.

You can caress my hair

and my soul at the same time.

I do not make grocery lists

search for discounts

make the bed

I am not the best wife

for you will find me under the fan smoking

with my notebook

on the kitchen table

writing

and the meal long forgotten.

I like how he snores, though

wakes me up and begins my writing

finding comfort in the sounds around me

while I pour out my ink once more.

The only way to continue breathing

is to dance

let the words tickle my sex

encompass my fear

rip open my guts

but you should stand back

because I am always at the edge of seventeen

(as Stevie Nicks sings)

and poets like you

inhale my words

regurgitate them

while poets like me

drown at Cosco.