Nancy Christopherson

These vivid blues on the walls of her room

with gold centers, like her eyes when they pan

around for us. It’s hard to tell if she sees us for

certain. No reaching out, no nod of the head,

no voice. I don’t know if the soul acknowledges

in that way. It seems more of a change in the light

from the center, the gold flecks in the iris perhaps,

that lovely bearded tongue. Or simply a general

radiance. She takes in a breath more distinctly

at times, an actual expansion of the rib cage,

a faint rearrangement of the muscles of the eye

as to focus more clearly on subjects. But I believe

she sees us, I do, she just squeezed my hand,

the pulse of energy passing through to my brain.

It tingles there still. I feel something more

here than the eye can discern. She is with us.

As well as she can be while straddling two worlds

simultaneously, spanning two white Lippizan

stallions in that haute ecole of dressage. One of them

performing in acrobatic leaps, the other one dancing across

her arena making tiny steps toward an X. The true riders

seat quietly the animals’ backs. Nary a flicker

of eyelash. She is smiling. I don’t know if she

hears me but I say bravo, mama, bravo. More

importantly, we are at least in the same stadium

as she. Speaking gently, breathing, even fluttering

a little like doves. I believe this reassures her

in the balancing act, one leg in this world one leg in

the other. I am certain there are cornflowers

and iris on the walls there too. There must be,

as the dust motes sprout blue buds and blossom

wildly up ahead of her polished gold hooves.