by Linda Parsons
In tai chi, I hold the ball of air, more
resistance than emptiness, I grasp bird’s
tail. Rock forward, back to my heel,
the space between my hands palpable,
cool at the edges. It speaks without words.
I rock forward, sit lightly on the side
of the nursing home bed. Space between
my mother and me palpable with distance.
Over lunch, years without words soften
in the antiseptic air, no resistance.
We speak at the edges of things. I lean
to her good ear, over the cooling tray—
this and that, her long hair, mine cut,
both gone silver. We no longer grasp
the ball of time, palpable in its absence.
When you hold the ball lightly, emptiness
resists. Energy fills palms and fingers.
A presence hums like breath, the bird’s
plumage palpable as pounding blood,
a space the size of a heart.
Our eyes meet and smile. Between us,
we hold no reason to retell what’s long
forgotten in this stale room, both dying
to the past. Why resist the heart’s own
cure, speaking so loud without words.
