Funeral of already dead things

And so in dance, authentic Genevieve -
Free spirited, honest, blissful me through movements,
requires which of what I have cut off from my own bones,
(dislocated and folder over into disconnected rags, shoved into a hidden closet, in a deserted house, covered by walls with crooked picture frames and plaster),
and asks of me
to unleash the ragged dolls and skeletons,
to breathe in thick sticky dust choking lungs,
to fill my heart with the black tar of shame that I knew would have killed me ...

The layers are thick,
suffocating like quicksand
and sharp as glass.

The idea to enter these all-encompassing-murky- waters
seems slightly masochistic...
yet I know now that this road points me swirling ahead
back "home",
into this body that can no longer hold all of those years of loneliness and isolation
from the love that penetrates deep and deeper
into the dark cavernous swells of my magnificent soul.

In saving myself I lost myself.
In rescuing my own terrified child
I imprisoned all her beauty and her magic along with her breath.

And so now I step,
in this moment, and this moment, and this moment
into the empty-hallow-spaces
between my femur and tibia where my knee used to be
and into the echo which resonates profound and steady;
somewhere between my sternum and left scapula.

I walk the edge of my own edges willing and aware that at any point now I could tip
(throat forward and open) into this body that forgot how to be mine.

If the decision to reclaim my birthright to ecstasy
brings forth a funeral of already dead things
and old ghosts
then let it be ( It shall be so),
for my desire to love deeply
and live in my own frame
with enough freedom to sway
in and out and through
is much more appealing to me now.

(C)Genevieve Nolet 2011)