Mobility

Against the cold clouds                 
Atop the thin, metal ledge of a road sign
A heron lands,
     massive black wings outstretched
     in silly proportion to the skinny stilts on which he stands.
He starts to flap his wings
     as if to fly away again
Slowly, in large powerful swings
And gradually faster and faster
     until his whole body is shaking from the violent flapping.
But his skinny legs do not let go.
He is flying, but with his feet planted,
     as if within him
     there are two wills.
Until, at once, he twists his neck west and rests.

Jazz

    It begins simply and draws you in its simpleness. The streamers of its simple melody dance their way around the room, round and round each person. You feel drawn and can't resist the soft tugs of the streamers. You move your head in rhythm, your neck bobbing in and out. Your hands, arms, and chest join in. As the melody becomes more and more complex, tangled streamers pulling in all directions, all of your body is compelled to beat. The melody is swirling above you; you can't contain it. It's driven with no brake. You can't keep up with it. So you laugh.

    Her body was jazz--long, slender, ebony body, sleeked back by black clothes and hair; thin limbs, extending to tips of slightest fingers. Music came out of her body but was inseparable from it. Her face squeezed in agony, and then, at once, relaxed in smooth stillness; her neck strained with protruding veins, until suddenly, only the shadow of collar bone interrupted the velvet black swan skin; her stomach and hips circled; her legs pumped; her arms flailed in perfect rhythm, loose, with no need for control. Music emanated from her, both in sound and movement. Together they painted the beautiful, captivating emotion of Jazz.

She

She created them
   with her own body, her own blood.
She nurtured them
    molding them with her hands
    carving them with her words
    painting them with her heart
She designed their home
    soft and warm and full of light
She loved them with all of herself
    and she had a special love.

They were hers,
   and she walked around them freely,
   twirling sometimes in pure joy
   of the intimacy they shared.
And when she tripped,
    they helped her up,
    because they loved her back.

But one day, she ran to them with outstretched arms,
   and saw that their faces had changed;
   their expressions somehow indifferent to her, colder.
And then she saw what she knew would change everything forever--
   Others,
     separate in skin and different in mind,
     had entered her home.

The invasion shocked her
   and she retreated like a finger from a flame.
In silence she stood,
   chained by the foreigness of the others,
   who walked around arrogantly
   cutting cold crevices in the soft pillows of love that lined her home.
She watched and felt her skin tearing
   as her creations said nothing and did nothing to protect what had been.

They tore themselves from her
    and she silently screamed
    as each strand of bloody tissue snapped,
    sliced by the tension.
The pain was so deep,
    and she wished she hadn't the capacity to love,
    because if you can't love, you can't feel such pain.

But late at night,
    when all was still and dark,
she tried to imagine life without love,
    and she shuddered.

One day, her wounds will heal
    and she will find it in herself
    (or out of herself)
 to take them all,
    in all of their sameness and separateness,
    in her hands,
to shape them again
    with her special gift of love.
She will find joy again,
    possibly greater than before
    because with difference comes potential.
And she will learn to twirl again.