I am watching girls do pirouettes
in the middle of the lounge room,
bodies revolving,
eyes returning, always, in stolen glances
back at the analog wall clock.
I am pretending to be disinterested,
my knuckles whitening as they fall,
terrified of any botched emergency first aid I
would need to perform
on banged heads, or loosened kneecaps.
Thomas Pynchon open at my fingertips,
his sentences long and punctuated
with commas and double meanings,
I can hardly commit a phrase to memory:
the women of Bordando el Manto Terrestre
squeezing tears from Oedipa,
as I am left with dark lines, fearful hands, and a body filled with circling.
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