Jordan E. Franklin
All I have is time—
When someone else is red, it means I live to bow another day and I
welcome how calluses glide their cruel feet across my palms. This
sword of mine is quicker than any ballet—I carve my name into
any body that asks for a dance, my steps my signature same as the
blue tap dance of my coat.
My blood enters a new tempo—
It sings for me to reenter familiar steps. It calls my right hand
home under my katana’s guard and for my knees to bend as I wait
for the rhythm. It is a pity most never see the end of this dance.
Before the music fades, my blade returns to its sheath. I am not one
to waste a song or beat.