My breaths, pace in sync
with the movements of my body,
legs extend gracefully
into arabesque as my body speaks
its own language.
Moving along with the classical, festive beat
Swinging around into a sickled
attitude turn, there is a snap
after only moments in the air.
On the floor, clutching this distorted figure
painted with black and blue
while bladed shocks shoot up to my skull
and slice back down my body again.
All my strength drains out of me
and I am now physically useless.

He tells me “six to eight weeks,”
a simple hiatus,
but for me this diagnosis is an eternity
to be away from the thing I love most.