Your silhouette is something celestial

the way it stretches and contracts,

even in human form it is somehow formless—another partner.

Gender does not abide by your fluidity, dancer,

you look like martyrs are taking your arms and lifting you continuously.

You make me forget about Murphy’s Law even for that brevity,

we can learn something from you, dancer.

How you put it all in—courageous—as if trumpets are in between

your ears muffling those doubtful thoughts.

The way you move without, withouts, as if each chasse

is in itself an ultimatum of remorseless exuberance.

Your grace does not ride on chariots on fire; it is a waterfall of marbles;

you let us have one, to feel in between our fore-knuckles,

and roll it over our palm like it will tell us our fortune.

Dancer, it is like your limbs are muscular rubber bands

that shoot you to another echelon—

a world in which conveying motion is a transcendent pouring.

When I see that dance I feel like I am in an isolation chamber,

dancer you terrify—

you scare me into knowing: what being released is.

Adam Que is a writer from New Jersey. He has competed as an amateur MMA fighter. After he stopped, he started to share his writing.