the f-lap is done with tip

of the shoe. the ball-tap. the toe.

is sudden. soft. swing the foot forward.

to brush. then flick. is careful though.

deliberate. quick. should mimic the keen

click of a pen :tah-ta: would be

a ball change if you shift the weight.

though this sound requires surgery,

an incision in the silence. the ear

permitting the ankle’s sharp sweep.

a release. control-breath-release,

she says. my mother, stopping the music to adjust tomica’s arms, karl’s shoulders. tyheesha’s laces are undone but doesn’t dare look down : fuh-lap: my mother, a drill sergeant of sound, hears hesitation. an unsure shuffle. a skimped beat :ts ts: again, she shouts. don’t cheat. [tap is as much about intention as it is integrity, is as much about the ground as it is about gravity. to be both bird & boulder; to sink then soar in seconds. the body a decibel bracketing the quiet. the body birthing vibration. aluminum against oakwood. earth grinding earth.] & my mother conducting. a meticulous stampede. she patterns popping oil. says, cadence is clinical, each step sterile, clean :tah-ta: clean : fuh-lap: fuh-lap: fuh-lap: my siblings now sweating in sync. eyes forward, facing the mirrors. the basement air thin with heat. again. her voice, cutting through percussion, rattles what the mirrors return. her tongue metal in her mouth. the whole house buckling on beat. pulsing through copper pipes. so how could she really expect me to be asleep? me, eight & eager. up past midnight. all thud & twirl & overthinking. rancid with mismatched rhythm. an almost meter. my bedroom a cluttered auditorium. i perform for no one. barefoot but promised my shoes next summer. then i can dance downstairs. look & listen. i can make thunder too, i think, while pressing my ear to the floor.

poetry-magazineRehearsal

Rehearsal