Pilates with Ellen

by Amy Gaizauskas

Ellen, we’ve met before, 1000 times 

& each time it’s the same, me 

forgetting my mind tells me what I know 

to be untrue, but my eyes know something too… 

know not to not give in to something sweet 

or blue, like a Theraband wrapping thighs. 

We’re laying on our sides, with our ankles 

pressed together, then we pull apart our knees 

until we feel the burn: a green-hued blue, 

the lighting in the room, sparks on mats, 

an emerald or a pearl collapsed. Portal, 

pot hole, teeth. We’re fanning out our legs, 

puffing at our veins, a turquoise state. What 

is this dread or weird desire, whatever it is

to touch or move closer, feel warm, 

good. O inner wind on outer edge of truer 

truth, you carry me in flames, on waves, 

in nutshells: I mean these clamshells— 

now opening to goddesses, with hair 

to feet & looking for a place to land.