I dress in my national costume
with bright red silky sharovari pants
and a foulard tightly stretched
over my not yet bald head.
In a grand gesture of defiance
I draw out from my brilliant blue sash
the naked blade of a saber
and wildly scythe through the air.
The blade is so thin and razor-sharp
and I so exact I slice air molecules
in precise halves then clamp
the cutting edge between my teeth
to underline my ferocious roots.
In my mind I transport
across the steppes of Ukraine
in such excited mental state
I end up straight back right down
my cultural roots in my shaman
forefather’s lap. I personify nature
and so well known terra firma.
I sway my body and arms to mimic
the wind bending the tops
of wheat fields and hoisting
my horse’s mane.
Through a tour de magic force
my solitary figure dissolves afire
in the center of the stage
symbolizing my return to earth.
