TWO LEFT FEET
I cannot be danced,
not, certainly, led,
not foxtrotted, conned,
not fixed. I haven’t
the shoes. Once, pelt
ruined, a dead fox lay
roadside. Footless, for
I never saw it run.
I hadn’t the shoes
to lend it, moonless
and mindstunned. Return
to my empty window worse
than begun.
Own waltz, own trolley,
ding dong. The right
steps and I’m gone. Good
as useless, these shoes.
I’ve tried. Black nights come
for everyone.
—from Rattle #42, Winter 2013
__________
Aran Donovan: “At nine, I followed my father on his hospital rounds—down white corridors, past patient beds and nurse stations, into imaging labs. There, he held x-rays and scans up to a light box, diagnosing strokes, aneurysms, atrophies. Watching him, I learned that each succession of images needs interpretation, words to connect the scenes. I write poems to make sense of what I see.”
