Things I Do In Secret

i do not dance;
even when a song
creeps into my bones
in a way that makes them itch.

except i do, sometimes,
in secret,
when stars are the only beings
around

and still cannot see me
through my bedroom window;
which looks into a smokey yellow hallway
on the inside of my apartment building.

i drape an inky blue scarf
over my lonely mirror.
i make believe i can do ballet.
i trip elegantly over my curled toes.

i stand inside a doorway frame trying to roll my pelvis in its sockets,
something i’ve learned from the few times
i’ve left the comfort of my cave for the lonelier darkness
of that trendy new hole-in-the-wall.

and sometimes,
i keep moving,
until i break something, or am sweating-
and not in the glisten-y, sparkly way.

but most times,
i snap out of it too early,
remembering what i must look like to a third eye.
i fall asleep with a furrowed brow.

– with love, devonshiregrace

My Litany

You are my bread and my wine,
My god and not my God.

You are the knife on my table
And the Sunday bird whistling.

You are the rhythm
And my reason for dancing.

You are the wind,
Winter’s foreshadow of spring.

But you are also my bleeding fingertips
And my breath, pace quickening.

You are not my wings
And you most certainly are not that clear moon in my dreams.

Because I am your stars
And your childhood finger paintings.

And I am the cars’
Whirring on the highway stream.

And I am the autumn breeze
And the leaves’ reddening.

And I am your bridge
And falls’ rushing debris underneath.

And I am the blues, and the greens,
And the orangey-pinks.

But I am not yours:

I am nothing to find
For ears deaf and eyes colorblind.

(Inspired by Billy Collins’ “Litany”)
-with love, devonshiregrace