she said it starts
green
as we see it,
it starts with grass
I would like to
paint my thoughts
with the grass
stalks of
your
childhood
I would like to
tie my thoughts
into braids of
grass like those
of your
childhood
some soft
and
springy
others rough
and unpleasant
to touch
they cut
through your skin
when stroked in
the wrong direction
those with
a sweet aftertaste
and those that strike
you not unpleasantly
sour
others that warn
with bitter notes
I am not to be handled lightly
those that are not
to be played with,
touched
and even less so
tasted
and even less so
tasted
is there
a line that
connects us
a line of many
fragments
of many
evolutions
a line like a
stalk of grass
a line of
many
lines
curving
like spring
reaching summer
and then turning
towards winter
autumn is
the curve
falling
I am often left
without words
and then there’s
language of
leaves
shapes,
how they move
in the wind
weight :
falling
smells : rising
texture : felt
(they said they
were
fluent
in shadows and that
the plants move
like letters
drawn
by the
elements)
a verdant
vernacular
a memory buried
in an act of translation
a folded leaf,
a branch
out of place
what does it
say, what is being
said, what do we say
to each other, what
do we say
grammar,
whose grammar?
why do I (who
call myself a
choreographer)
so often find myself
caught up in twists
and turns, of
green
grammar
none the less
what speaks to my
body and what
speaks of it
revolving around
bodies impersonated by
words, becoming
words and
becoming
bodies
again
rendering light,
wind, shadow;
in anticipation of
movement that has
been inscribed in
movement
and you –
how did you speak
and move and think
is there a line that
ties me back
to any of you
that stalk of grass
steeped into tea
by word
of mouth
ingested
lineage
which is the medium
of our connection
if not memory,
whose memory?
there’re palms,
there’re leaves
there’re limbs
a sound
I recognize
a sound I don’t
a crackle in my
body of which origin
I do not know
with certainty
a bone, a muscle,
a pocket of air
how do I respond
to you
because you are
at my hands reach
as I am within
yours
my body bends,
your alphabet
your vowels
and
consonants
my body curves
not unlike a stalk
of grass, twists not
unlike tendrils
spiraling into
midair
your
movements
can be mine
as the wind
and the sunlight
can be yours
paying attention
to what in me
responds
to you –
as you revealed
yourself to them;
as an ally to
their minds
to their
bodies,
as a trickster, as a –
I can’t imagine
a language
that is truly
yours
yet
spoken
to me
not only
yours but
yours as well
what resonates
beyond the language
of flowers delicately
cultivated to
navigate the
blushing
of (so often
female) desires
desire exiled from
the tongues and
projected
onto bouquets
of cut flowers
perhaps your lingo
as a (kind?) guide
to our intuitions
your nouns
ingested
(again)
your verbs
experienced on
skin and muscle
a mind
spiraling
organs
responding
in perfect pitch –
(thinking of your
name is like
screaming
into the wind)
and why the
insistence
on literal,
not lateral
to read the
anatomy of
weeds as
a map
back
to our
own bodies
dissected, in parts
- eye - lung - sex -
as a reflection of
the moon
in the ocean
a shimmering
semblance
performing
benevolent
acts upon
our tissues
common
language
must take us
beyond all that;
the kind that is mine
but not only mine
Narcissus
transfixed
by his own image
grows roots by
the water
edge
still,
walnuts are
good for the brain