“I wonder what kind of poet doesn’t wear out their shoes, writes with their head. The true poet is a traveller. Poetry is about travelling on foot and all its substitutes, all forms of transportation.”—Helene Cixous, Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing (S. Cornell & S. Sellers, trans.)
Years from now, having lost the shape of a hard-tutored body, you will explain to those who ask why your feet bear the scars of the wounded, you will say, “See these feet are dancer’s feet—they are the brutality of grace, the ugliness of flight;
they remind us of the earth, how it holds us to itself, punishing us for leaping like we do.” And at every twinge in the knee at each stair taken, you will remember the clamor of cheers filling the arena, with you at the center, nimble, feet planted, muscles pulsing waiting for you to leap again, and fly, fly, fly.