Estelle at 75

 

Though she grasps the fixed surface upon which she

rests

with solid affection, though her left sole

plants itself firmly enough on the ground,

still her shoulders lift as if

with a secret knowledge of wings,

while her right thigh stretches, her right calf

dances and sings, her right ankle

dips its delighted toes into terror and temptation,

the whirling alluring waters of the unknown.

 

Though her two legs have lived side by side

all her life, the right has its own special way

of touching, speaking, beseeching the left,

as if to discover afresh that mirror-image opposite

twin.

Her right leg peeks out like a playful kitten,

a supple snake about to shimmy up a tall vine,

a child whose toe stretches just beyond the edge

of the world that she's come to love.

 

But her love of the ordinary keeps her left foot

pressed down, the restless whole of her held

by her hand to this spot, as a boat is held back

by its rope to the shore of the pulsating sea.

One can almost brush up against her invisible wings-

silky smooth and nuzzling the breeze-

the wings of a butterfly poised on a flower to drink.