That we might take it for a
voice, from a white heavy sky,
something like drums.

(There was never any real thunder.)

Yes, like bladed hands
against my shoulders. I did not ask
the right questions.

Yes, like heat falling, like the earth
experimenting with form and content.

(There was never any warning.)

And the eye drawn out to blurred fields
with those jewels of dragonflies
sheltering on the lip of my window.

We sheltered, too.

Silver strings, an entire wall of water;
How could this be a season?

That we might be imprisoned
when the rains fell. The grass scent
of the house gave a feeling of grace.

That we might take it for a sign.

What I want to mean is any distance really—
trunk to branch, voice to breath, a straight line.

But I do just mean ours. The dark mirror of the lake.
The way a room grows silent but never warm.

Making this a distance that no one can cross.
Not on tiptoe anyway, not with all that water.

I want to imagine us in ballet clothes, tiptoeing,
eyes closed, gentle hands with honest gifts.

Solemn and careful, feeling only a little ridiculous
as we lace up our ballet slippers, let our toes bleed.

To make the hard, graceful attempt with our eyes
and hands. Mercy. So is this what I’m refusing?

The pain in a fully bent foot? All that weight
on just one part of me and not the whole?

When did I become so stubborn? When did I
decide there would be no stretch and flex?

Maybe if empathy were more like a purse, than mine
could have a shape and still feel this tattered

and stretched out. But it would still be immense.
It would contain possibility. A softer lining.

Michelle Bailat-Jones, St. Legier, Switzerland