Taylor J Johnson

Breaking-In Grips

My palms are trapped inside performance grips,
the wrist and fingers strapped in leather strips

with holes and Velcro. I think of Aphrodite
wanting mortal men and how her mastered hands

ached in sheets and comforters. When I mount
uneven bars, the wind belts my circling hips,

skims my lips, the chalk upset as ocean foam.

for years this is my training: leather grips
bound to shroud my rips and calluses,

to give the gift of executing giants,
of straddled flight beyond blue whale

mats. After practice, the unprotected
skin strips in little see-through sheets

across my hands, bloodless with a sting,
despite a closed or opened fist. I know the pain

of holiness: fast flay of haloes turning
faded palms more permanent. To forget

the tender skin, I fantasize my fastened grips
stretching for the edge of my hands like fitted

sheets within the midst of my high bar routine,
chalk anointing pointed toes in the layout dismount.

and when I land, when I’m done resisting ground,
a cloud of chalk settles in the corner of my mouth.

I move my tongue. It tastes like salt.

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Taylor J Johnson’s poems have appeared in Birmingham Poetry Review, Terrain.org and elsewhere. She received her MA from Texas Tech University and is currently an MFA student at the University of Florida.