Crack

The first thing you saw was a perfect arm:

spotlit tricep, corporeal credibility

one dancer nested in another,

already enough to get a poem going

if only I'd been ready for it. 

The dancers for all their dynamism 

were there to animate another's idea,

grounded and bound in their interdependence. 

It's the poets who have to be ready to leap 

at the first glimpse of an image.

The piece was called Crack

which was not a good name --

thoughts of bent-over plumbers,

murals in Harlem,

and the tattoo I encouraged my Irish-American 

now ex-girlfriend to get on or above her ass:

an egg splitting in two and the words 

“Where’s the craic?” on or above it,

knowing in advance that splitting in two 

would be the best thing we could do.

And that was indeed the point.

Crack as in the harder form 

of what you shouldn't have touched to begin with. 

Crack as in the sternum under 

the pumping of those perfect arms.

Crack as in the place where the light gets in.

Personally I like to sit in the dark

and let my mind relax, waiting for the image

to slither across the clearing.

Let the leaping begin.

Crack was only an hour (easy to say 

when you’re not whirling on stage) --

not enough time for me that evening 

to generate the speed I needed

to leave the orbit of work, mammon, lust,

despite the push from their leaping legs 

wrapped in pastel rayon. By the end, 

nipples and pricks poked through the fabric,

less impressive than the triceps and calves,

but closer to our understanding,

both more and less intimidating.

The audience gave them a standing ovation

thrilled as they were to confirm yet again

that someone else could do it

someone else was fit to make 

something other than money.

If I stayed in my seat

it was neither disrespect

nor disappointment.

It was just that I knew

that I hadn't yet found 

what I hadn't yet known

I was waiting for

and I wanted to make sure 

I was ready for it.