I have carried its death for nine months. Now I birth it. Through her eyes verbs were only ever passive; what we call improvisation Paxton knows is not contact, but unperceived imposition.
mid-June. from the in-between
she discarded first the dried & the drying.
for her prosceniumed floors
there was nothing to leave behind.
gestation could hold the dark between closure
and resignation. then,
the moon had turned blue for us,
wiping its crystal residue across my chest
so when i’d left the studio
the dim had retained its heavy, leaving one emergency
light the honey chassé
of a sole.
without sound now i will shut pastels.
our dances were always waltzes for
one, feet remembering the back and
forth, & in that,
our backs speaking too.
without sound now i will shut without now i shut now will without
i know now –
outside there are rows of rooms to create,
and while she will never hear, i will…
my harlequin heart will always hold a
space in which we still fly low