A Few Weeks After My Heart Was Fisted Down My Esophagus
I peeled off my pointe shoes and lay, nearly naked,
under a sheet. With each long glide
of my massage therapist’s palm, press of his thumb,
dig of his elbow, my cells welled up. My fingers twitching
impulsively, my head, in the little hole, shaking,
No. When he got to my hips, as always, he laid his whole
forearm down, compressing muscle, flesh—
the dull depths of my ache unrelenting. Panic spun
up my throat as I tried to exhale, my hands gripping
my thighs, the sides of the table, mentally trying to shove
him away. But, he stayed, dead weight, getting heavier, deeper—
the center of my skull throbbing as I whimpered.
Until the fibers surrendered under his hand and oxygen
streamed out of my neck. My chest, for a moment, breathing.
Stefanie Leigh is a poet and ballet dancer based in Toronto. She holds a BA from Columbia University and was a dancer with American Ballet Theatre. Her work has been published in Rust & Moth, ONE ART, SWWIM, The Inflectionist Review and elsewhere. Her first chapbook, The Stilling of Movement, is currently on submission. She can be found on Instagram @iamstefanieleigh