Island

 after Thelma

 

They say pain is an island with a cabaret law. 

Say that aching is a song you shouldn’t groove to. 

Don’t let your head bob or your foot tap

for your joints will groan in protest. 

 

Let the space between the joinings lay stagnant

the air expanding until you are a balloon 

tethered to the mooring of this plane by threads 

woven from your hair

as it pulls from your scalp.