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The indefatigable Victoria Doerper has again graced us with a wondrous poem!  Thank you Victoria!

Saint Sane

In breathless rush
Of wrestle
With a problem
Or a person
Or a heartbreak
Of tangled humanity
Suffering in a wilderness
Of pain
I conjure up Saint Sane,
Wearing a jaunty beret
And a string of bright orange
Beads that pop.
In one hand is a stick
She uses to walk
Difficult terrain
The other hand free
To gesture and proclaim
The oddest beauty
Of the moment,
Pinned, perhaps,
In prick of heavy brooch
To a sagging shoulder.
If Saint Sane
Were in my shoes
She would raise up
Her hem to better tap
A staccato dance,
Or toss her percussives
Altogether
And glide
Softly barefoot,
Feeling the warm sweep
Of golden sand
Anointing her feet.
But I am not Saint Sane
So I churn and tremble
At odd moments
Missing the beauty
Yet hoping still to find
Some whirl of joy
Near the calm center
Of the dance.

–V. Doerper, 05.01.14

 

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