A poem by Andi Talarico
The truth is, both of us tend toward
frozen the first chance we get.
How much easier to stay solitary, rigid,
than to deal with the loose architecture
of mess heat.
The truth is, you hold sway
and that gets my hackles up,
makes the light glint off my spurs.
See, I don't do fluid well.
Just like I can't slow dance because
I can't follow a lead.
Do I even need to see that thought through?
It is everything.
Forget dance, let's start with standing.
No, let's talk leaping.
See I've been warned about the fall
But not the love for the smash and break.
There was no fitting into you,
no slide and then lock into place,
just the unbearable and tremendous heave of
bones growing new bones.
The truth is, you weren't the freefall
but the cracking plunge through
The truth is, you weren't the hand
that hauled me to the surface,
you were the air inspiring
my lungs again.
But you were also the freezing water. The lake.
The air. The plunge.
Is there a word for that kind of power?
FOLLOW ANDI TALARICO