by Marissa Bell Toffoli.
Ankles shake. Trust is rusty.
Like it’s only old bones
rattling this thin skin.
The beat, the count, hit it.
Dancers in the studio flock
together in time. Turns spin out.
Breathe. Another take needed
for the pulling apart, limb from limb,
you from me and the other
way around. Spot me?
Return to center. Hold.
If you blink now
you’ll miss the best part.
What is revealed in
an open palm,
a window of sky.
All of us suspended
in the moment before
the song turns over.