I Love It When
Someone fifteen or twenty
years my junior forgets
the same kinds of things I forget—
like the word cardigan, or
why they just walked into the kitchen.
I feel better about myself if
they trip a bit on a gnarled sidewalk
or go to dinner before seven,
squint and shine their cell phone lights
on the menu, order one entrée
split between them.
I’m oh so happy when Jamal—
a handsome-hardbody danseur—
substitute-teaches our Zumba class.
He doesn’t see us as seniors.
When he shouts, Let’s sex it up, ladies,
we do.
June with her titanium knee,
Beth standing by a chair for balance,
Dee on blood pressure meds,
Ellen who can’t reach overhead,
me and my misbehaving back.
Jamal makes us believe
we’re Beyoncé back-up dancers
or Rockettes.
Look at our Bob Fosse hands.
Watch our strut kicks.
Watch out when we swivel our hips.
*
Why I Write Poetry
Because the peace bell tolled for Jimmy Carter’s 98th birthday,
and I need to commemorate that commemoration.
Because I chuckled when I read a sign outside a church that said:
Grow a garden–
Lettuce praise him
Squash the doubt
Turnip at church
Because I’m bothered but amused by Instagram bots who want me. Profiles like:
I believe true love meets you in your mess, not your best.
Always thank God for giving me life in the land of the living.
I am looking for a real and trustworthy sugar baby to spoil with my riches.
Because The Consumer Product Safety Commission announced
a recall of wall beds due to serious crushing hazards, and it was horrible
but reminded me of a Three Stooges skit.
Because a harpist said in an interview it was love at first hear
when she encountered Mozart’s Flute & Harp Concerto. At age 22, she joined
the orchestra for L’Opéra de Paris.
Because an eagle cam showed me live action: A dandelion-fluff eaglet
growing bigger than the daddy and then fledging in 12 weeks. And both parents
bringing fish for lunch until then.
Because my Australian uncle at 96, during his last transfusion, asked for
the blood of a 19-year-old nymphomaniac.
Because I once saw a post on our neighborhood social media:
I need a good deep tissue message therapist, and I thought I’d better heed her call.
*
Beginning Tai Chi
I know rooms like this
empty before class.
A mirrored wall multiplies it—
ballet barres going on forever
like sky. Sun gleams
the wood floor, inviting me to fill
the space with dance,
Piqué turn, pas de chat, grand jeté.
I know how it feels to leap
but am no longer airborne.
My balancé, now
Rooster stands on one leg.
In Tai Chi, We stay grounded,
the master says.
Part the horse’s mane.
Grasp the sparrow’s tail.
The twenty-four movements, not dance
but dance-like, he says, we flow,
undulating his hand
through air—a dolphin in water.
A moving meditation.
Slow, relaxed,
not ballet’s hummingbird-power.
We each hold a chi ball—invisible,
soccer-sized—one hand underneath,
the other on top.
I focus on that seemingly
empty space,
feel its unseen weight, its almost pulse.
Draw energy—chi—from the earth
into the dantian, seat of life essence,
he says.
Wave hands like clouds,
And my own stale clouds loosen,
take on other shapes. Not old woman, but
Fair lady working the shuttle.
Not ballerina, but
Crane spreading its wings.
*
Karen Paul Holmes won the 2023 Lascaux Poetry Prize and received a Special Mention in The 2024 Pushcart Prize Anthology. Her books are: No Such Thing as Distance (Terrapin, 2018) and Untying the Knot (Aldrich, 2014). Poetry credits include The Slowdown, Verse Daily, Diode, Glass, and Plume. Daughter of immigrants, she was the first gen to attend college and has an MA.