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Poem: A Man at my Feet 

A man lies at my feet
and a woman, and another over there.
I glide between bodies. Hovering,
Maybe to touch, where?
and what to say?

My hand on his inner thigh
likely to frighten him away,
self conscious, shy,
in tense predicament,
he has detached his shell.
He tries to move a ligament
under my professional spell;
my gaze investigates the body
of this person by my feet.
I know his muscles ache.
I swoop deep,
I touch above his calf to make
my point.

Talon, forceps, or cradle?
Hazardous, the profile of my power
With which instructors earn their fees
the wide world over,
who presume, preside with an expertise
over beginners’ obedient opened
bodies on a floor,
four fragile yielding limbs,
uncertain tendons, trying to explore

We can disfigure with our reach—
We can wound far more
easily than teach


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