By Kathryn Kysar

We had not touched, seen faces up close

in fifteen months. We stand in a circle,

breathing in unison, our hands on each

other’s chests. Waves move through us.

In pairs, we open into each other’s eyes,

not the desperate online search for

meaning or message. Jose’s, deep brown,

tell of his journey north and north,

not forgotten or forlorn, just a bit sad.

We unfurl, like leaves, like the wind

in the birch. We ground our roots, lift

our legs high, point our fluttering arms.

Once, I was a dancer, tall and thin, stepping

to jazz on a worn wooden church floor,

no pews, only the worship of movement,

the chorus of bodies, my teenage

longing for expression, for connection.

Now we stand in a circle breathing,

our hands on our own expanding chests,

curating our internal dances, welcoming

our collective grief, our relief, our communion.

Kathryn Kysar is the author of two books of poetry, Dark Lake and Pretend the World, and editor of Riding Shotgun: Women Write about Their Mothers. Her work has recently appeared in Defunct, Hayden’s Ferry Review, The Mollyhouse, and Voicemail Poems. She lives on Dakota land near the Mississippi.