This poem is part of a series titled identity.
The first piece in the series is ‘Strip.’
This is the second piece.
The third piece is ‘Jazz Hands.’
The fourth and final piece is ‘Floral Floundering.’
Cobblestones made of fear, hope and flimsy beliefs.
Eyes drawn to each other are forced apart on empty
Streets- why do we shy away like brides meeting their
Thieves? Ruefully toes curl up in their moist niche,
Lapping up the clouds in their suffocating cotton clothing:
They curl in tandem with my wobbling cherry knees,
Searching their way through other’s sure-footed feet.
Marking lines with my heels, my pivoting rotor hips
Twinkle and wink at passing trees and ask for things
They know they can’t receive: so they blend into
The billowing wind, billowing cloth, billowing skin-
Hidden under a jumble of garments, and stubbornly
Plant their buttocks into the wind and don’t budge
From their silent seats, pulled along on whisper-leashes.