A poem by Andi Talarico

The Fool

 

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

winter's water.

 

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