Premenstrual Syndrome

Feeling like a taciturn raindrop

Pouting on a window sill

I grow squat and round

Finally, I’m lying on my back.

Clutching my guts,

Counting to ten,

Taking deep breaths,

I squeeze my eyelids

And try not to fathom what’s happening in there.

The Bolshoi

Natalia Osipova’s fingers wade

Through an illimitable ambit of space.

Abounding cadaverous knee caps,

Bending and hopping like agile rabbits,

Affix to mechanical ankles.

Feet like cambers

Slice V-shaped cut outs

From the airborne philharmonic melody

In the second shade of La Bayadere

Long jump champions put to shame

By her ferociously buoyant leaps.