Now that our Trisha Brown adventure has wrapped up, I look at my own tumultuous period dancing her work—from being injured, to healing, to re-injury, to some healing again—and notice how my physicality has colored my experience. Below are two poems, the first from a more personal perspective as a dancer under full capacity, and the second inspired by and retracing the imagery I found dancing Newark.
Before the Rainmaker
Back to this, where I’m not
girl or robot but only another
casualty in Bolivia’s water
war. They cut off my foot
again, and a small price
to pay—they laughed. For
what? For the chance
to balance a ten-foot pole
on my head in a dance, or
not a dance, but a game—
hold on, we called, hold
on, we echoed—now move.
——————————————————————————————————————–
Tales beneath the Newark Surf
The car makes a three-point-turn while the guard
raises the flag—the tide rises high but we
toss a beach ball to a seagull who catches
only the spraying ocean and the horseshoe crab
scuttling just ahead of his tail. Swordfish, table,
lazy Susan—what we become today, when
either a game of leapfrog or the strong wind
turning the sail threatens to capsize us, and either
way the storm spits us overboard, but we are
our own buoys, reeling into land, reviving our
salty lips with honey water before we fly a kite
that always tangles in its own tail. Put the kite
away now, Jimmy, the dog barks, staking out his
hole and chasing away his intruding tail. The dog
rolls into a slow-speed squirrel chase as if death
were no different than a sticks and hoops game. I am
napping in the sun again, on my other cheek
now, until I spot a skipper rock—but a skipping
boy announces himself king of our sandcastle,
the king, who is but a little man, racing to the tide
then backing away again—too icy for sand-scarred
toes. The sundial keeps moving past white-hot sand
so we duck from the rays, while the dolphin spins
out, flipping for a fish and disappearing underwater
where they buried me—under sand, water and myself.
Shake the sand away and back-dive—I’m holding my
breath and jumping up for air on my water
wings. Flamingoes are my favorite birds—the head
in the neck, peeking side to side and stretching
for a sneak attack to scoop a fish and stretching
to swallow him, tired from eating, the flamingo
shakes off slick water, her quick webbed foot-ball-
change. If I flew I would be as long as time, but my
knees are knobbly. Remember when they marched
in the monkeys—monkeys in propeller hats, who were
almost little men, except for their forever-long tails.