We exchange hands for hearts,

for thoughts,

for ways of just being
in places that look like they can be worn with pleasure,
but we find that they fit too tight
in the armpits
or along the lines of our panties,
so we put on another layer of skirts,
covering their thoughts
from our tenderness,
as we dance.

We’ll twirl with pleasure
in a space in which we were meant to be
because no matter the place
there will always be someone
whose lack of care
places a burden upon us,
as if we awoke with stones poured into the pockets of our skirts,
stones not of our choosing,
we’ll pull out the coppery-colored pumice stones,

holding them in our hands

the wind moves through the holes,
becoming a give-and-take,
a take-and-give,
a give
and take
before we skip the stones across a river,
watching them float a bit
before they sink,

feeling

a lightness

in the letting go.

 

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Editor: Renée Picard

Image: Venetia Featherstone-Witty/Pixoto