Let me correct you. What you may only perceive as discipline
I can describe as luxury. You will learn

an economy of movement, body binding color to object.
It’s breaking contact, the final thrust

which colors the ballon. Articulation affects the character
of the jump. When the leather rests sans intercession,

the skin trembles against the surface of the dead. Such training
absorbs like dye. Bringing the fibers into focus, revealing injury

from below. From before. The moment time says I wasn’t here,
where I was. That isn’t healing, it’s mercy. In here, in the crush,

I can hang. I can see you as you put your hands to use.
Do you know this skin is split. Packed in salt

and stacked on pallets. Soaked in lime, the hair scraped off.
The fibers swell and can be halved. Tanned an even beige

in phases increasing in strength. Cut to avoid evidence
of animal: no eyes, tail, ears. I finger the brand, fleshy

suggestion. Dressed in Diamond, faceless mask. The shine
proves survival is gesture. The suspension cannot last. Take

your breath with you when you leave the floor. Caught
beneath the sternum it will keep you, let you down.

—Mia Kang © 2019