Just taste it and you’ll see
what I mean.
Walk into the room instead of me and stay
standing.
Turn the microphone on and clip the battery pack on
to your shorts. They’re tight, I know.
And your throat tightens.
I know.
And you taste that tang of stress (slight)
and that bitter bit of fear that you’ll forget
or disappoint.
But these people are prostrate
on their mats, arms reaching, fingertips reach–
ing. Waiting
for you to start, to speak, move them.
Just taste
the words bubbling up to your lips, pushing
into that puff of foam
projecting
outward and away and tasting
(“crawl your fingertips to the right”)
like sweat and (“lengthen your spine”)
something about to
(”deep inhale here”)
sweeten.