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      June 10, 2014Aran DonovanTwo 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 #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.”

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