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Grasping the Hand of Whatever Reminds Me I’m Alive, I Dance

Andy 1 min read
poetry
Grasping the Hand of Whatever Reminds Me I’m Alive, I Dance
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You needn't believe in ghosts to dance with
them. Just ask the Robin napping in the
quiet of a broken fountain, drunk on jasmine
and sugar. Ask drowsy Orion, who was up all
night, or the Taiga, bent on its knees, heaving
snow and ice. Ask the businessman who got
away with it, or the panhandler who did not,
who admonishes you not to make promises
you can’t keep. Ask the judge who says of
your earnest complaint, solvuntur risu tabulæ—
the case is dismissed amid laughter. Ask the flags
that have lost faith in their stripes. Ask the
gravedigger, the cobbler, the cabdriver,
the violinist in the subway, the stagehand,
the ballerina. Ask the patient counting backwards
to oblivion. Ask the surgeon and the janitor,
drenched in the blood of yet another soul they
couldn’t save. Ask the dog, convulsing in his
sleep the way dreaming dogs convulse. Ask god
or the gods. Ask your priest / rabbi / imam /
shaman / therapist. Or, better still, ask yourself
why you are swaying, sweaty, to the sad music,
a solitary shadow whose heart beats alliteratively—

I’m still here. I’m still here. I’m still here.

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