My right leg has
lost touch with the world.
But when they ask,
I say,
“Amazing,”
because it feels amazingly better than the old trial limb
and because I know
that’s the answer
they need to hear.
ONLY
Three
TALENTS
Tired of holding the wall
when I perform the apology to the Earth Goddess,
I try it without support
although a tremor crawls up my spine
at the thought of falling in front of the children.
My feet and knees to the sides, I lower my torso,
my back erect.
I feel the weight on my left side rolling onto the ball of my foot,
feel my left heel lift off the ground.
But I can’t sense what my right foot is doing.
Unbalanced,
I tumble out of position.
My bottom bumps on the ground.
A giggle erupts and spreads.
The entire earth seems to shake with scorn.
I am a fallen piece of rubble.
“Silence.” Govinda’s eyes
leap like angry flames.
Every trace of laughter dies.
Govinda instructs the class to continue,
walks over to face me and assumes the pose himself:
knees bent all the way to the sides,
resting his torso on his heels, legs folded in half beneath him,
balancing on tiptoe, back perfectly straight.
He’s so close I catch the faint coconut scent of his hair.
“Veda, our ancient scriptures say
the best dancers must have ten talents:
balance,
agility,
steadiness,
grace,
intelligence,
dedication,
hard work,
the ability to sing well,
to speak well,
and to see deeply and expressively.
You’ve only lost the first three talents.
Only for a while.”
The three I need most.
What use are the rest?
“Soon you’ll regain all ten talents.”
Govinda waits.
In the depths of his eyes I see no pity.
Only patience and trust.
His hands stretch on either side of my waist
between the edge of my blouse and the top of my skirt
near enough to hold me from another fall
but not touching.