Across Cheap Gold Floors
Across Cheap Gold Floors
Across Cheap Gold Floors
by Madi Morelli
Four hours in a movement class, exhausted and glowingTwo people at either endMaking a sort of ringing sound.(instructions to follow, blindly)Sit in the middle of the room,And wait to be swayed.Blindfolded and breathless from the thrill,A leaf encased in amber, patientStill.Perfectly safe. Entirely blind.
Childlike, trusting the hum in the room.Singing in no words, our own little arias.One voice was lilting, arched. Skilled, soaring, and clear.I was terribly tempted. There was beauty,an overpowering sweetness that was seeping into every corner of the room.I swayed, with the net beneath meMy body finding grooves, footholds in the open air
But the voice on the other side of my blindfold was singing, seeing,something older.It was solid. Simpler, drawn out and endless.I recognized. A snowy pathA well-worn indentWhen I wasn’t afraid of quiet. A childhood dog barking when any man over 5 feet came near me.The voice cradled me and made me small.
The old habit carves its way into me like a groove in a cherrywood tableI crawled to the sound of my past, when the noise didn’t scare me either,And then I ran to it.My love has always been dependent on the warm embrace of familiarity.I hadn’t known either voice, even though I should have.But my body knew.
In every round, low constant tones reverberated the stained glass church panesA delicate sweetness promising a guiding handA warm light.
They sounded like songs from movies we loved as children.
That entrenchment of these little loves, Engrained in the fibres.I know what we crawled for.
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Featured in our November 2022 issue, "Groove"