All day I’ve imagined living in a new way-
starting again on a blank page.
Speech would go first; waste of breath.
Then writing; too hard work. Giving up
gestures – solid stuff like that – well,
I’d not miss my fragile wave, or fatuous shrug,
would you? It won’t be a matter of keeping
still either; I’d have to move, circulate.
No, fluidity and excommunication will
stir up all kinds of unheard commotion
in place of the usual puppetry. I can almost taste
the savage, tender songs that would arrive
to romp around and spin within the spaces
left me in which to play,
to build up and knock down
inside myself
a life without the stale stories
that answer to my name.

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