Why do I like an exercise ball?
Because something not still
Forces me to be still;
That's all—that's all.
When my hands are on the ground,
The ground remains unchanged—
No matter how much I
Tense, misalign, strain.
But the ball only
rocks to rest or
Smoothly rolls until here's
The pressure of my forceful
Hands, taking hold:
Then it shakes and quivers, not like
A ball at all; like a gramophone
Bell, bearing waves out of
Me—my own (
Which is to say, off-centered, too
stiff,
Undecided). The ball takes
Every back-forth of my
Soul; makes me ride it.
Nervous, I call it a joke; a toy.
But then I sit, bouncing for
rest, on its horizon: slowly
stopping, closing my eyes on—
Now I try to raise my feet;
The ball rolls out from under.
I lie on the floor, heels above
Me; the ball wanders.
I press my elbows on its top
And inch my toes back:
Arms wobble, my girdle
Tightens; the ball laughs.
My violence echoes down to nothing
In that green-rubber space, every
Time I'm pressed against
Its calm, calm face
With my tremoring muscles, my fear that
I'll fall (while out from its center
springs
One silent mantra: “You know
What never topples? A ball.”)
