Day 03 - Светлана Феофанова

Get up. Don't just lie beaten.
Picture yourself as Svetlana,
poised, a human mantis,
some twelve foot of fibreglass
and carbon fibre balanced on her shoulder
like a bazooka. A serious Donatello,
with no distracting gadgetry,
clenching her haunches, which quiver,
bare beyond the narrow clutch of lycra.
Stop them shaking.

Picture yourself running
on bright, throbbing ankles,
planting the pole in the box
with the certainty of a dash of poison
delivered to a cauldron at your enemy's feast.

Take off, turn in the air,
as on a schimitar of wind and see,
beneath your salmoning legs,
your Italy of loose hair,
beneath your stone-taut bum,
your arms and empty fist,
see the pit balooning like a puff adder.