Like Riding a Bike (3/7/10)

(I can't decide how physical love is. Is it like riding a bike, something the body remembers? Sorry about the epic Wizard of Oz allusion, I'm really into that metaphor lately. Probably because it's queer, and because I keep making bad decisions...)

They say falling in love
is like riding a bike.
And i ride Sparkle Pony all the time!
(my glass-bead-covered bike
from Brooklyn, we audaciously
hit it off instantly,
and then i bought her a new bell.)
But I'm not so convinced
I'll remember this other process.
That idea implies familiarity
with things like balance,
and forward momentum.
It speaks of muscle memory
and learning from first bruises.
I have a short fuse
on my memory. Lessons that should be
filed neatly tend to combust. Poof.

I can't imagine that my body
is capable of holding within it
this much knowledge.
Because muscle memory
doesn't explain how to sit still
with someone and grieve, or how to be silent.
It doesn't explain being apart,
how to miss someone.
It doesn't explain dreams,
or lies. (I forget how to lie often,
but sometimes remember
at just the right moment.)
And if your problem is walls,
your body will not help you
bust through, because they are built with
more and greater and newer bolsters each time.
You can never un-do these the same way twice.

I'd like to reach back and recall
that moment where, somehow,
with the distinct taint of magic,
gravity overtakes your skin cells
and inner blockades and pupils and pulse
and your body slows, sinks, falls.

But this is such and illusive miracle.
I'm afraid the yellow brick road
will only appear so often,
and if I forget the way
no powerful woman or loving sidekick
or unique shoes or man behind the curtain
will be written in the script
to usher me back.
I might end up alone in
that hot air balloon,
directionless and windblown,
and tired of travel.