but the dancer

makes herself
out of yielding dead
wood and maybe a garbled
lyric floating by
tuneless still almost a song

she cups the length of her leg
in her own hands
a bid to piece new bits of herself together
she is not over she may be tattered
yet she is unbounded

she is eternal
takes flight half-finished
exalts in her movements
she’ll pay with her pain or
whatever it takes

her measures erode any unhelpful sense of
which way is up, up or sideways or down
she knows infinity she also knows
as long as bodies can break or be broken or bought
dreams can be flogged like spirits

but that’s why
the dancer
the indestructible dancer
makes
herself