Wallflower

 

by Leslie Ann Minot

 

All down the corridors

of my father’s illness

I swing my hips,

as if the body’s gift

were to be brave

 

Because muscles are swift to lose

            the taste of twist

 

Because at any moment

            I might run

 

Because spine & root & branch

            & falling leaves

 

Because sweet chariot

 

Because death

            lingers alone by the wall

            & will not dance.