Rasa






I slick my skin with oil
scented to invite you to come home. 
It seals in my rasa, my sacred flavours.
and shields you from the fire stoked by hundreds.
Like the Goddesses of Hindu tales
I embody Her complexities and finery.
I prepare to be entwined in clear lines
stepping in circles
around here and there
and you
and I.
We press palms and inhale.
We breathe step 
by pivot
by pause.
Wonder thickens
between songs as 
we gaze into the eyes of our found duo.
A delicious question unspoken rises between us
before we complete the tanda with concealed regret.
I radiate into his energetic body
and leave sparkles of my preparations
with rose water
white sage
and coconut.
I give over to the world that is inhaled and imagined 
fleeting and unkept
in a dance of understanding
and respect.

	


	







	

		
Dance of Mind
	


	
	

		


Dancing through gardens in my mind of
fuschia pink blooms
glinting in warm morning light.
But it is night time in a dark upstairs bar
in Montreal before I understood what was happening.
My addiction was already planted like a seed in 
cold, dormant earth before winter.
But it was your tending that grew the blooms. 
I hide my thrill at your invitation and can’t yet relax
unselfconscious and regal, but you show me the way.
With hushed, soft breath 
I inhale your fragrance, my mouth turned toward your cheek
A height of equals, an embrace without reaching, a connection
that extends far beyond skin, inward, toward the vital organs.
As I step backwards in your embrace
rows of delicate blooms advance in my dancing mind.
Forget-me-nots beside phlox
and shasta daisy.
Lily-of-the-valley sheathed in green cocoons.
I try not to hold on so tight, 
but I don’t want to let slip this fine thread
that connects the back of your heart to the center of my palm 
threaded forward into my sternum.

The parting of my ribs receive yours.
Hearts buoyant, inflated.
You step urgently, quickly. 
I have to pay attention with you.
“Wake up!” is your dance.
But my mind wants to be languid, lazy,
and drift through the piles of peonies
and lilac bushes, moving heart-to-heart in the sun,
to the violins and pianos of a Fresedo soundtrack.

Part of me wants to stay awake with you,
to tune in to your intention,
intensely, trip with you quickly, lightly, lowly,
to be nothing but present to you.
For the last few bars I savour
each weight shift, breathing deeply and full.
On the final beat you step me back and bend deeply at the knees.
We are poised together, with your brow slightly towering mine.
The spring birds tweet and I sway back to my seat
after a slurred and shy “Merci, toujours un plaisir.”