Form Description:

In “dance is,” each stanza is a body-part-like shape referencing the body part it discusses. The lines are also arranged so there could be multiple paths for a reader to follow and discern meaning: hopefully evoking a sense of movement rooted in the eclectic and intimate nature of dance.

The first stanza scatters words horizontally, as if ending with a tail (“tale”) of a comet.

The second stanza, oblong in shape, forms a hazy eye.

The third stanza has two narrow columns as the outer hips and  a center diamond-like shape, altogether indicating a pelvic outline, each of the three components making some sense read both separately and together.

The fourth stanza is two wavering columns like shoulders, linked by the emdash between the first line’s “the shoulders” and “ribboned”, and the phrase “like waves, one by one”  in-between “they coil” and “always together.”

The fifth stanza first trickles down word-by-word like a curving spine, then splinters into multiple lines, “spiraling down” and up to reach “canopies.”

The sixth stanza outlines two jagged feet with toes pointing to the right, stretching across the page in a “thoroughline.”

The top of the seventh stanza begins with a symmetrical, wide V shape like an outstretching of arms, the words on each side meeting at the center. It diverges into a heart-shape that can be read across or one side at a time,  sending “that twine lace / through / singing” vertically through.

The next stanzas isolate “i don’t know / but ” and “what it is /  I do know”  as two two-line stanzas on each side of the page, and read horizontally as “i don’t know what it is / but I do know.”  

The last stanza isolates “I was born / a geography, / knowing” from the following stand-alone line in parentheses, (to dance).

Full Text of “dance is”:

dance is

       maybe       a winged fingertip                  in the enfolding

  of a collarbone           with the       spurs     of some    kinetic

          property,                                 sparking            across         tales           of                  comets.

(it starts from wherever it starts.)

                              let’s say, the eyes — pools  

   ripe with dreams                 sacred and                 weathered. 

                               here,                                the floods

decide the spaces           between scales in                   ever-blinking

                                              metronome.

   then, the hips                                                                                 — we sway

          we hold                                        we                                          breathe.

               we                               collide         in nests                               that

 are meant for one,                       miss      (sing)                           of the waltz,

                                                                steps

               a river stroll                                                                 with a friend 

                    as our paces                     greet                             untimed.

                    next, the shoulders             —                  ribboned 

                            of frayed hem                             in the raggedy knots (before)

           (i knew how to thread).                                                  they pin stoic

                        peaks against cloudless                                 moon in their first and fifth

              locus; or they coil     like waves, one by one            —  but always together

                         (knitted)   (by the collarbone),

                  shimmying to a wintry expanse     shivering to the ecstasy

                     of empty sheet                       in a tipsy quickstep.

               of course, 

      the spine —

           a stack of 

                    undulating 

    tectonic

measures                                                                              (the ears).

          spiraling down                                and  reaching canopies

                            into the crowns of the roots

        bowed in storm,                                     it twists as the willow blows,

                              iron-rod in grace                                          shuddering at sparks 

                                               of bodies              between 

                                                            moving                        time.

the feet,           oh the feet —

         callused but truthful, the way in 

     which 

        the metacarpals 

                   diagram  turquoise

                                                throughlines  beat  into   souls

                                                                                                   we’d walk    

                                                                                                                   a thousand times 

                                   for a wrong reason, just once for a right                                                        one.                                                                                                        

      ankle marked with ribbon

                                             scars, we anchor

                                                             to clouds                                in a miracle 

                                                               of  spontaneous                   

        navigation and

                                                                                                                   collision.

                                                                                         premeditated

                             in our sails,            compassless. 

and, the hands — fingers shared,                                                                           unbraiding wound (up) frame. 

                     they are the clasp of a sister,                                             the press of a canoe against three-four,

the outstretch of peach flesh 

inward to cup and 

to care and 

to craft in lung

another seed,                                  a second hour. 

they are the ones     that twine lace     across chest cavities

      and draw mosaics                                              in parthenonic scale,

above                                         through                                     beyond

                but never away,                         because

   isn’t a palm the same                                                             as a heart

                  anyway?                                                            they all crease

                     their gazes,                                                with gasps

                        squeezing open                             of salt and light —

                      all my mappings,                           together.

singing

  i      don’t know                         what it is,

                 but                                                                  I do   know:

i was born 

a geography, 

knowing

 (to dance)