I’m sixty-two. She’s six. I flunked gymnastics at MSU
but consider myself an expert at other things—like telling
people what to do and how to do them. We Google:
        
Cartwheel. “The cartwheel is a split hand movement.”
Do you know what that means? she asks. Of course,
I say, directing her to raise her arms above her head.

One foot in front, the other in the back. That’s right.
Think hand, hand, foot, foot. Now bend your body
to the right. Place your weight upon your forward leg.

I flip her over, my hands almost meeting around
her waist. We start again. I do what I do best. I talk,
speak of muscle memory:  That’s true of dancers,

movements stored in their limbs… She rolls her eyes.
When your feet lift off the ground, there’s that doubt—
not knowing how you’ll land. You do it anyway.

A matter of faith. A bit like writing poetry, I say.
And is she listening when I mention my delight
as words spill out, performing cartwheels of their own
across the blank field of the page?

From Because There Is No Return (Passager Press, 2015).
Used here with the author’s permission.